


My Fair Maiden

by Dialects_and_Costumes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), My Fair Lady (1964)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Jaime and Brienne are also ridiculously horny for one another, Musical References, My Fair Lady (1964) References, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Romantic Friendship, but it remains an unconsumated horniness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialects_and_Costumes/pseuds/Dialects_and_Costumes
Summary: When Brienne Tarth's speaking voice is insulted in the streets of King's Landing by Professor Jaime Lannister, she decides to take him up on his offer for elocution lessons.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 59
Kudos: 39





	1. Why Can't The Westorosi Learn to Speak?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME to My Fair Maiden, where I've decided to create a My Fair Lady Jaime X Brienne AU because why the FUCK not. I've outlined 19 chapters to correlate with the songs from the musical, but depending on how I develop certain stories, that might change. It mainly has to do with how I approach the B plot of Eliza's father.  
> This is the first fanfic I've written in at least a decade! I have shamelessly stolen a LOT of the dialogue from the musical, and even more shamelessly taken it and twisted it into something that fits into a My Fair Lady version of Westeros.  
> This is unbeta'd, but I'm no foe to anyone who would like to take me on as one of their babies :D
> 
> Also, I work two jobs and it's audition season here in Seattle, so while I would like to update this fic every week, I won't promise that'll happen. I'm hopeful I can get a chapter written every other week!  
> I'm [unadulteratedkr](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come say hi!

Chilly, wet, and dark: three of the worst conditions for a successful night of flower-selling in the streets lining the theatre district of King’s Landing. _You’d think th’ gentry would welcome an ‘int of color in their evenin’s_. Brienne Tarth snorted at her thoughts as she trudged up the haphazardly paved cobblestones.

Brienne, wrapped tightly in her trusty wools and multiple layers of skirts hiding the warm trousers underneath, grimaced as the rain trickled down through the hole in her trusty hat. The brim had been frayed when she picked it out of the rummage bins of Flea Bottom’s market, and no amount of patchwork was going to ever make it serviceable. Her gloves were frayed into being fingerless thanks to both their age and her long fingers.

 _Maybe one day I’ll be able to save ‘nough for… me own gloves… made for me._ Brienne allowed herself the wistful daydream for half a moment before shaking herself from her reverie. Ladylike trinkets like custom-fit gloves were not something for her to dream about, not with her daily flower-selling intake barely paying her food and lodging, and not when she looked like –well, like she did. Most of the flower-girls she spent mornings elbowing out of the way looked as delicate as the very flowers they peddled (although from some of the elbows she received in return, there were more than a few thorns hidden by their lithe figures), but Brienne was just about as delicate as a tree trunk.

Sighing, Brienne readjusted the soggy flowers she had managed to scramble for at the flower stalls, trying her best to keep the more delicate ones out of the rain. She was usually lucky at the stalls. Being as tall as she was and as solid, she never had issue with finding the gems at the bottom of the rejects: the only slightly wilted baby’s breath, the wee violets that worked as a nosegay when you found about a dozen, the daisies only missing a petal or two. She would arrange them with a delicate hand, and Brienne knew her little hand-sized bouquets were just as pretty as the ones available in the high stalls or the glass windowed shops. It wasn’t ever the attractiveness of the bouquets that kept her earning mere pennies, a fact that made her face flush with anger if she thought about it. That very blushing face was the cause, and Brienne hated it.

As the first wave of theatregoers left the warm lighting of the King’s Iron Theatre, Brienne glanced down to ensure she was off the smoother paving of the footpath, a move that found herself protesting with a loud “Aaaaow!” of alarm and surprise. She was falling, pushed by another body stumbling into hers, and it was a split decision of the moment that saw two of her bundles of violets crushed beneath her torso rather than her wrist.

The young man (for he had been the unsuspecting culprit guilty of ruining her violets and her dignity), scrambled to his feet, exclaiming his apologies with a rueful grin, offering his hand.

“I do say, I’m awfully sorry. It seems I lost my footing on the path! Are you hurt, miss?” He had lovely brown eyes set in an equally lovely face with a delicate nose and was impeccably dressed in white tie and gloves. _Ev’ry inch a gentlemun._ Brienne found herself blustering to hide the blotchy red spreading over her cheeks.

“Aaaaow, watch where ya goin’, dear! Watch where ya goin’. Naught hurt…” She turned away from his kind gaze, worrying over her two ruined nosegays of flowers, “but two whole bunches of violets. A full day’s wages…” she muttered, gnawing on her bottom lip at the loss.

The young man was interrupted from any further apology by a severe-looking gentleman on the footpath barking out, “Renly! Renly, call for a taxi.”

After a final wince towards Brienne, the young man ( _Renly,_ she corrected her thoughts) turned away from her, calling out “Yes, brother!” before walking away to signal for a horse-drawn cab. The older gentleman had a pinched, unpleasant face with wrinkles enhancing the frown of disapproval he cast towards Brienne as he waited for Renly. Normally she would have no problem shrugging off the appalled glances she received from the upper-class, but Brienne’s pride had been hurt when Renly hadn’t finished apologizing, her violets were ruined, and the rain was still dripping down the holes in her hat. Brienne glowered at the man, marching over to him.

“So ‘e’s your brother, is ‘e? Well, if you’da taugh’ ‘im to be any sor’ of a gentlemun, you’da made sure ‘e wouldn’ run off wivvout payin’ for a gel’s flowers after ruinin’ ‘em” she demanded, straightening to her full height. Even with her standing on the lower cobblestone street, she had a few inches of her intimidating height on the unpleasant man. His wrinkles grew even more severe as he glanced up at her, snorting nervously. In that look, Brienne once again felt the real reason she struggled to sell her pretty arrangements. She was strongly built, taller than every man she met, and she was not one to suffer fools. She refused to be pushed around just because her face was plain and her figure was distinctly unfeminine. She could tell this man, like so many before him, would not pay her a cent for her flowers; not when she looked like a poor and miserly aberration.

“Run along, wretched girl” he dismissed her, scuttling off to join Renly, who was by a column supporting the theatre, still searching for a taxi.

“And if you’da been a gentlemun, you wouldn’ta left wivvout payin’ for ‘em neither” she grumbled. Brienne sagged against the next closest column of the theatre, glaring at the ruined violets, futilely trying to find a way to hide the more tattered blooms behind the merely crushed flowers. “Two bunches of violets… trod in th’ mud” she fretted to herself as she tried to see what else she had in her basket to hide the damage done to her two best bunches.

As she poked at the flowers, the rain began pouring down in earnest. The few theatre patrons who had dared wander outside the shelter of the theatre’s overhanging arches rushed back to keep out of the rain. A nearby tea-seller suddenly had a line reaching around the building, and Brienne perked up a little bit at the changing weather, hoping the mad crush of people would mean people wouldn’t look too closely at her flowers. As she looked up, a man who was as short as she was tall, dressed smartly in his eveningwear, almost stabbed Renly’s surly brother with his umbrella, exclaiming aloud as he managed to find shelter under the theatre’s awning. Brienne hid a satisfied smirk as the older man winced. A large drop of rain had splashed onto his nose in his efforts to avoid the umbrella.

The smaller man gazed out at the rain, and proclaimed to no one in particular, “I say! It does look as though there is no end to this wretched weather. It’s even worse than before.”

Seizing her opportunity, Brienne held out one of her violet arrangements to the dwarf. His face was distinguished, but couldn’t have been considered handsome at all. There was a good chance he would ignore her own plain face and delight in the flowers like her. “When the weavver’s worse, juss means it’s nearly over, Cap’n. Buy a flower off a poor gel?” She smiled, doing her best to keep it warm and genuine.

The dwarf blinked, taking in her height, even as she continued to lean against the column. Almost out of surprise, he responded, “I’m so sorry, I haven’t any change on me” but continued to stare at Brienne.

Brienne took the opportunity of continuing to hold his gaze, and pressed doggedly, “I can change ‘alf a gold draggin, take a flower, Cap’n” she urged.

He cleared his throat, shaking the stupor her height had wrought on him and searched in his trouser pocket. “Well, one can’t argue with such salesmanship. I do apologize, such sales _woman_ ship. Here’s three bronze pennies, my girl. I hope they come of use to you.” He pressed the coins into her hand but ignored her outstretched bouquet. Brienne shrugged. Who was she to refuse freely offered coins?

As Brienne added the coins to her small purse, a stranger approached her in a long coat, tucking his face under the collar to keep it dry and hidden. “A girl would be wise to give the gentleman his flowers. A girl would be seen taking coins as if begging by the stranger opposite this column. A stranger is writing down every word a girl is saying.” Brienne whipped her head around, trying to see the man in question, and when she looked back to accuse the stranger in the long coat of meddling with her, he had vanished. Brienne frowned. She twisted to try and see around the other end of the pillar, craning her neck as far as it would go, eyes widening as she saw a flash of a journal and a pen flying across it.

More of her indignation swelled, and she pushed herself off the pillar. “I done nuffin’ wrong, talkin’ to the gentlemun, and I _was_ sellin’ ‘im flowers. I’ve a righ’ to sell ‘em ‘ere if I keep off the curb, it weren’ my fault ‘e didn’ take the bleedin’ violets” She had started off by just calling out to the crowd, attempting to call out to the stranger who had pointed out the mysterious note-taker. She had drawn the attention of the dwarf once more, and she stalked up to him, her voice raising.

“You tell’ ‘em! I done nuffin’ but sell you a flower, and I won’ have anyone accusin’ me of bein’ a tart or a beggar juss because I ain’ given you the flowers” Brienne was yelling now, frightened and angry. “You tell ‘em! You tell ‘em righ’ now. Don’ let ‘im charge me… I didn’ commit any crime, and I won’ have my honor dragged in th’ mud for talkin’ to the gentlemun-”

Before she could take another deep breath to continue protesting, the owner of the journal interrupted her, “There, there, there! You yell as if someone is trying to kill you, wench.” The man prowled out from behind the column, and Brienne swallowed. Renly had been handsome, but this man was beyond the meaning of the word. He had a laugh hidden in his bright green eyes and tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he was only holding it back to ensure he didn’t frighten her into a rage. It intrigued and infuriated her, how _dare_ he laugh as he was planning to arrest her?

Brienne lifted her head in defiance of that hidden laugh, and dared to poke him in the shoulder. “I won’ ‘ave you takin’ me to jail for talkin’ to the gentlemun, I swear by the Sev’n I won’-“

“Do I really look like a policeman to you, wench?” He interjected again, and Brienne tightened her grip on her basket, glancing at the man suspiciously. No. He wasn’t a policeman. Not in his expensive, dark brown overcoat with a green tie designed to make those laughing eyes of his flash even brighter. 

“Why’re you takin’ me words down, then?” She demanded, glaring pointedly at the notebook in his hand. “ ‘Ow do I know you took ‘em down righ’ in the firs’ place? Show me.” The green-eyed devil let the laugh tucked away in his mouth out for a mischievous chuckle, and he held out the journal. Brienne hesitated, glancing at the man for a sign that this was a trick before she stepped closer so she could look down. She frowned, biting her lip in confusion. Instead of the clear strokes of the Common Tongue of Westeros, there were foreign symbols sketched all over the page.

“Wha’ kind of writin’ is tha’?” She blustered, her frown deepening. “Issit… did ya turn me words into High Valarnian? I cann’ read High Valarnian.”

The smug look on the man’s face did nothing to eradicate Brienne’s scowl. “It is _not_ High Valyrian, but it makes no real difference if you can read it or not, wench. The point is _I_ can.”

He pointed to a line on the page, following along as he read from them in a perfect imitation of Brienne’s accent, “When the weavver’s worse, juss means it’s nearly over, Cap’n. Buy a flower off a poor gel.” Brienne could see that wretched laugh lighting his eyes again as he turned away from her to scrawl more notes in his journal.

Brienne gaped at the man, but any retort was silenced by another voice. She wasn’t the only one staring at her adversary.

“ _Jaime?_ ” Brienne’s head swung around to see the dwarf from earlier, looking up at the man he called Jaime with a disbelieving grin.

“Tyrion! May the Smith strike me down, I can usually smell Lannister blood in the air!” The two men beamed at each other, exchanging warm handshakes. Jaime clapped a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, laughing in delight, both of them now completely ignoring Brienne. She huffed, an attempt to shake off her moment of humiliation, before starting to look for an escape route. Maybe the crowd coming from the most recent Targaryen tragedy up the block would be ready to buy some violets.

“Jaime, my dear brother, have you decided to leave your pursuit of language to accost young ladies on the street? I hardly need your help defending myself from molestation from the odd flower girl, even when they’re so devastatingly unique.” Brienne bristled, pausing in the steps she had taken away from the brothers. _Devestatin’ly unique… I’ll show him devestatin’…_ Brienne turned back, her hackles up.

“Not at all, Tyrion. Why, I wouldn’t be here to accost the wench if I weren’t continuing my exploration of the Common Tongue. And how was your time in Dorne? I don’t recall you mentioning you were going to be spending so much time there.”

Brienne would have snorted at the look of surprise on Tyrion’s face if she wasn’t feeling so incredibly out of her depth and tetchy; the look on his face must be a twin to hers after seeing Jaime’s notebook. Instead of the gaping fish look Brienne had sported afterwards, Tyrion threw his head back and laughed.

“That never ceases to shock me, old man, what gave it away? Was it the roll of my ‘r’s, or was it the nasal quality of how I said ‘flower’?”

“Both, naturally. As for you,” Jaime turned sharply to Brienne, no hint of his smiles or laughs in his face, just a pointed academic focus. Brienne was trapped by that focus, leaning once again alongside the column for support. “What are you doing so far from the island of Tarth? And why have you been away for so long? No doubt you get their sailor’s wretched habit of dropping your ‘h’s from there, but that is no excuse for the other letters you’ve been leaving behind like chattel unless you've been living here for almost a decade.”

Jaime’s accuracy shook Brienne from gaping in shock, and her eyes narrowed as she retorted, “Wha’ issit to you if I left Tarth or no? You try to make a livin’ on an island the King wouldn’ bother to sneeze on iffin we axed for ‘elp. I’m naught about to try ‘n make my way on a small island. At least ‘ere there’s ‘nough people to pass me a coin or two wivvout gettin’ distracted by my face.” She glared at Jaime, who had a puzzled look on his face, as if he was finally taking her in.

“You really think it’s your face keeping you here in the gutters?” He exclaimed, shutting his notebook. “Not in the slightest, wench. If you had that face but could manage to cease your detestable boohooing for a moment, you’d be richer than the King himself., and you wouldn't be so distressingly out of place here.”

Brienne pulled her collar up, trying her best to look dignified. “I’ve a righ’ to be ‘ere, same as you.”

Jaime stalked towards her. Brienne had never had the ability or the coins to visit the King's menagerie of exotic creatures, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the lions kept in the cages would be as shadows in comparison to the fiery _, witty_ man in front of her. Where she had blushed in front of the handsome Renly, her face lost all color in the shocking presence of Jaime Lannister, practically growling through the glint of challenge in his eyes, “A woman who utters her words like you have tonight doesn’t deserve to live. Remember you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech; your native language is the language of the Andals, it’s the language of the Seven, the language of reason and dignity! You do it a disservice by sitting there crooning like a bilious pigeon.”

Brienne was so startled and angry, she could only let out a wordless noise of protest, “Aaaaow!”

Jaime didn’t back down from Brienne’s anger, he merely met it with his own indignation, “Well, just look at you, a prisoner of the gutter, condemned every time you open your mouth! By right, you should be sentenced to death for the cold-blooded murder of the Common Tongue!”

“ _Aaaow!_ ” Brienne squawked, her knuckles white as she clutched her basket. She was sorely tempted to refute her earlier claim of innocence by thwacking Jaime in the stomach with it.

“Aaaow, by the Seven, what a noise!” Jaime turned away from her, his whole demeanor ablaze. “Tyrion, I just cannot understand why the Common Tongue has become such a bastardized version of its original greatness. This language that used to unite the kingdoms is now tearing it apart. In the name of the gods, why can’t the Westerosi learn to speak?”

Tyrion’s responding “Come now, Jaime” sounded like a phrase he had uttered more than once before, and it proved useless as Jaime continued on fervently. “Hear them everywhere, the slums of Flea Bottom, the sailors from Pyke and Tarth, all of them dropping ‘h’s and bringing those wretched habits here to King’s Landing. I’d rather hear the silent sisters shouting from Sept of Baelor than this one here” He again wheeled on Brienne, “cackling to herself like a chicken in a barn.”

Brienne snorted in spite of herself at the image of the silent sisters yelling outside the sept, and wasn’t able to stop herself from uttering a snickering, “Ga’rn” at Jaime.

His eyes sparked for a moment as he pulled his notebook out again, scribbling down her phrasing. “Ga’rn indeed. I ask you, brother, what kind of word _is_ that? It’s ‘aaaoow’ and ‘ga’rn’ that keep her in her place! You wouldn’t hear the King utter such intelligible noises, and if you dared spoke without your ‘h’s you’d be out here selling flowers too.”

“I beg your pardon!” Tyrion objected, but Jaime was clearly not finished. Brienne found herself entranced by his infuriating declarations, and she continued to listen as Jaime ranted on, “The Dornish teach their children Dornish, the Targaryen children all speak High Valerian, and even the Dothraki know their language as intimately as they know the blades of grass in their plains.” Jaime paused in contemplation, “In fact, the Dothraki don’t care very much what you say so long as you pronounce it properly.”

Tyrion laughed again. “Yes, yes, Jaime… why can’t the Westerosi learn to speak indeed? I’ve heard this time and time again from you. The question is, what do you propose to do about it?” Jaime grinned triumphantly at his brother as he leaned up against Brienne’s pillar.

“Throw my talent at the world of course! Take this wench here,” Brienne blinked, watching Jaime suspiciously. “Give me six months, and I could have you convinced she was a Lady from one of the Great Houses. I could even convince you she worked as a lady’s maid or the mistress of a flowershop, which requires an even better command of the Common Tongue.”

Brienne felt like all her breath had been sucked out of her body into the night air. “Wha’s tha’ you say?” Her blue eyes were wide with disbelief, but her face was soft with a dreamer’s hope. The laugh that seemed to live permanently in the corner of Jaime’s mouth softened.

“Yes, you fiend of decent speaking, you crumbled cabbage leaf... I could pass you off as the lost Princess of the Andals.” Brienne was transfixed by his confidence, and shakily laughed at his statement. She looked away from his bright green eyes, focusing on Tyrion instead. The other Lannister brother was much safer than the lion contemplating her at the moment.

“D’you believe that, Cap’n?” She asked shyly, feeling vulnerable in the hope she was feeling right now.

Tyrion smiled kindly at Brienne. “Stranger things have happened. You wouldn’t have two Lannisters standing here as experts on the tongues of Men instead of serving the King as advisors or warriors if that wasn’t the case.” Brienne leaned back against the column, a half-idea beginning to brew in the back of her mind. _‘E thinks I could be a mistress of a shop…_

The lion grinned at Tyrion, pushing himself away from the pillar. “Not that our father didn’t try his hardest. Tell me, Tyrion, where are you staying now that you’ve come back as the expert on all things Dornish?”

“I’m at the Mormount Grove currently.”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re not. Not anymore, old boy. You’re staying at 27 Casterly Street with me” Jaime held up his hand, putting a halt to any of Tyrion’s protests, “No, I absolutely insist. You’ve saved me passage to Dorne to see you myself.” As Jaime and Tyrion turned away from her to stride down the street, Brienne took a mental note of the address, her half-idea turning into a fully-fledged one. Determined to leave the night on a positive note, she called after the two men.

“Buy a flower, cap’n. They’re me best blooms, an’ they’d look ‘andsome in your hand.”

There it was again, that damned laugh in the corner of Jaime Lannister’s mouth. “Liar. You’ve crushed those poor little flowers, wench. Don’t you dare deny it.”

Brienne glowered at him, unable to contain her irritation. She dropped her basket to the cobblestones and threw both of her crushed bouquets at him, mulishly pleased when one of them bopped him on the nose. “You ough’a be stuffed with nails, I don’ even care if you take the bleedin’ flowers or the whole basket!”

Tyrion’s face was screwed up, his eyes dancing with laughter as Jaime tracked his path back to Brienne. For a half second, she thought ridiculously he meant to eat her alive like a real lion, but he simply took out his own coin purse and emptied the entire contents into her basket.

“A reminder.” His eyes flashed with something other than laughter for a brief moment. He turned back to his brother, and soon Jaime was grilling him on the actual number of Dornish dialects you could hear within a two street radius of the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn't obvious… Renly's brother in this opening scene is Stannis. He'll make another appearance later on and it'll be made much more clear who he is, but I wanted to eliminate all doubt for y'all reading my notes. I'll be tweaking canon relationships a bit moving forward purely so I can have fun with those characters embodying their counterparts from My Fair Lady. 
> 
> (in one iteration of this scene, I almost considered making Olenna Tyrell Renly's mother, but I hated it immediately)
> 
> I'm playing it fast and loose with Brienne's dialect, so if I wrote a word to sound different early in the chapter but didn't do it later on, it's entirely not on purpose, and you can point it out to me. I poured over some of my favorite authors' work with writing dialects, and I've stolen a lot of this from how Brian Jacques wrote his characters with dialect, but it's still some annoying work. Brienne's worth it though. 
> 
> On the other side of things, writing Jaime as the endearing little shit Henry Higgins is almost ridiculously easy, and I have such a fondness for this doofus. Jaime as Professor Higgins is obviously going to pay more attention to Brienne than actual Higgins does to Eliza because Jaime is even more of a doofus than Henry Higgins and can't help falling in love with this maddening wench.


	2. Wouldn't it be Loverly?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne thinks about how to follow her dreams, and makes a decision after having to deal with her father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN news!! I've been cast in The Pirates of Penzance here in Seattle, so I've got an exciting summer ahead of me! That being said, I'm about to be learning over a dozen of Gilbert and Sullivan's songs, which might cut into my writing time when rehearsals start in May. Do not despair, fair readers, I WILL not abandon this story, and I WILL not abandon you.  
> I'm [unadulteratedkr](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com), on tumblr, come say hi!

As the two Lannister brothers headed off into the fading rain, Brienne shivered. The crowds had dispersed at some point during their confrontation, all of them finally finding their way to carriages and taxicabs. It wasn’t the time of day for the gentry to be winding through the streets. A quiet, grousing murmur was replacing the glittery hubbub of the theatre crowds. Ambling down the road was a rickety cart full of the first wave of dockworkers making their way to the port, ready to unload the frigate that had pulled into Blackwater Bay. The lamplighters were checking the gas levels, ensuring the lights would gleam throughout the night, even in the soupy fog beginning to curl around everyone’s toes.

Brienne slowly knelt down by her basket, stunned close to tears at the sight that met her. Amongst the bundles of violets, baby’s breath, daisies and mums was more money than she’d ever seen in her life. Oh, she had seen the outside of the purses carried by those in the high class, but she had never been witness to the contents. She counted at least 4 gold dragons, and that amount alone was enough to make her dizzy. With shaking fingers, she painstakingly sorted them all and placed them into her own small purse.

“A reminder”, Jaime had uttered before letting every single coin fall into her possession. A reminder for _what_ , Brienne couldn’t begin to fathom. _Does ‘e think I need coin to ‘member ‘im? Not bleedin’ likely._ Even if the man hadn’t been so devastatingly beautiful, (and he was; Brienne’s dizziness was met with a dancing feeling in her stomach just at the memory of him. His sharp cheekbones, and the laugh that lived in both his mouth and his green eyes would drive her quite mad) his mind was so sharp she would have remembered their conversation until she died.

So. The coins were not to remember the man himself, certainly. Brienne gathered her basket back up, holding it gently to her chest. She wondered if Jaime had sensed the idea she had formed when he had started denouncing the Common Tongue’s abuse by her fellow Flea-Bottom neighbors. He had said he could turn her into a shopkeeper, and she had latched onto that more fiercely than an aphid on fresh irises. _‘Tis ‘is ‘andsome face tha’ makes ‘im think ‘e can make me mistress of me own shop, poor fool thinks juss ‘cause ‘e ‘as it easy it’ll be th’ same for me._ Brienne mulled, wandering her way back to her corner of Flea Bottom. _Bu’ if I coul’ talk a bit more genteel… maybe a shop’d take me on as hassistan’._ Her mind buzzed with the possibility of working in a warm shop surrounded by flowers that hadn’t been rejected as too small or too big or too misshapen, and her hands itched at the idea of arranging them for a Lady’s Great House.

The bustle of Flea Bottom’s market square at night began to build up from a murmur to a dull buzz as The dockworkers unlucky enough to miss the cart hunkered down past her to make their long trek to the River Gate (as her father had groused to her, there was to be no rest for the men desperate enough to unload a ship by firelight). Ladies who sold a different flower than Brienne cackled and fussed with their skirts as they made their way towards the fake glimmering lights on the Streets of Silk, and the daytime vendors were beginning to pack up their wares, finally resigned to a need to sleep over the need to make another coin.

Brienne wasn’t so foolish as to wander with her head in the clouds; Flea Bottom had plenty of thieving bastards who’d see her strong frame as a challenge rather than a warning, and she was not about to lose the coins she had received from Jaime. She did allow herself to take slow, careful steps as she considered what she could do with her new fortune. As she walked, she picked up bits and pieces of the conversations bubbling around her.

“Gaaaa’rn, ya don’ mean t’ tell me th’ gentlemun was SOF’ inside ya, Meg!”

“Swear by the sev’n, ‘e kep’ fuckin’ me wi’ a soft’un, ‘twas like gettin’ a pillow stuffed in me”

“Aaaaaooww, Ya go’ your wage from ‘im tho’, didn’ ya?”

“Wha’ do ya tike me for? A fool? ‘E tipped me good n’ proper, even iffin ‘e couldn’ _tip_ me”

“Mum, do ya think we can ge’ ‘home in time ta say g’bye to Da’?”

“Lovey, ‘e’s offen to the docks ‘n ‘our ago. Bu’ s’alrigh’, ‘e knows we made ‘im ‘is dinner to ‘ave later tonigh’”

“Tha’ cun’ Tywin be cuttin’ our wages again, mark me words”

“Mis’rble bastard… I coul’ set tha’ ship on fire sum nigh’, swear I coul’”

“Tha’ bead’ eyed bastard woul’ know it’d be you ‘oo set the damn boa’ on fire, ya know ‘e woul’”

“Aye, fuckin’ cun’”

 _They soun’ like me_. Brienne blinked, barely remembering to not falter in her steps. _They… they soun’ exac’ly like me._ The pretty faces of the women painted up for their nights, the coarse dockworkers putting in hours and hours of labor, the little family she passed by packing up their small cart of hats and coats… they all sounded just like her. Jaime had declared her face and form wasn’t the reason she was stuck down here, and the evidence was right in front of her. It wasn’t a lack of hard work that kept them all trapped in the gutters of King’s Landing. The hunched shoulders and bitter cackles everyone wore like armor was testament to that. She had a growing suspicion he had been telling the truth when he declared she could be in better company with a better voice.

 _An’ ‘is brother weren’ no ‘andsome prince… no’ in the sligh’est_. Tyrion had spoken with just as clear and precise a tone as Jaime had, and it was evident he wasn’t accustomed to the slums of the city outside an academic curiosity.

_Bu’ tha’ laughin’ face… maybe it were a mistake, tellin’ me ‘e could teach me. ‘oo knows iffin anyone knows when tha’ Jaime’s serious._

Brienne’s mind was racing, her stomach was still doing bizarre twirls every time she thought of her evening, and she was bewildered at her life finally giving her a choice on what to do next. A greasy, spicy aroma assaulted her nose through the fog, and she decided on her next choice with little worry. _I need somethin’ to ea’._ One or two stalls offered something other than Flea Bottom’s infamous bowl o’ brown, and she was faintly relieved when her nose led her to her favorite. Podrick Payne was the master of this little corner of the market, and he worked hard to provide meat that tasted exactly like what he said it was. There was no chance of ingesting parts of a person when you ate at Podrick’s, and that was only off-putting to the worst of Flea Bottom.

Podrick grinned when he saw her striding towards his stall, wiping the hair sticking to his face with a scrap of linen. He was a sweet man, and Brienne was unable to miss that, like the other conversations she had focused on a bit earlier, he spoke very much like her. “M’lady Brienne… it ain’ too often I gets to see you at me stall, did ya ‘ave a scrap o’ luck wi’ your flowers tonigh’?” Brienne couldn’t contain a small laugh, and glanced around to ensure no one witnessed her passing her coin purse over to him. His eyes widened at the weight of it, and it was only good common sense that kept him from dropping it onto his flaming brazier. “Tha’s more than a scrap o’ luck, m’lady!”

Brienne scoffed, but couldn’t help beaming back at the round-faced cook. “I’m no lady, Pod. Bu’ I’d be lyin’ iffin I didn’ say I feel like… like I’m in one of th’ legends. Or tha’ I’ll wake up at ‘ome, n’ this ‘as all been a dream.” She blushed a little, taking back the purse and fishing out some bronze coins. “I need some food in me stommick, tha’s gonna prove this ain’ been a dream.” Pod smiled, and turned to his stove.

“One meal made o’ th’ real stuff, comin’ righ’ up, m’lady. I’ll make me best aurochs for ya… tha’ way you’ll have me name on the top o’ your list when ya come lookin’ for your Grea’ ‘Ouse cook” Pod had a way of talking to Brienne that always made her comfortable, and she wished she could patron his little stand more often. In anyone else’s hands, referring to Brienne as a lady would have her growling at them. No matter how many times she told off Podrick for calling her “m’lady”, he never quit, and she never really got tired of hearing it. He tugged a rickety stool out from under his cart of supplies for her to perch on, and Brienne watched as he stirred the burning coals of his stove.

“Wha’ woul’ you do with a little more coin, Pod?” Brienne asked. Pod snorted, tossing two slabs of meat onto his trusty skillet.

“I’d take the missus to Myreen, fin’lly move back to me ancient house in ‘ighgarden, n’ I’d take me Maester’s wor’ n’ spen’ me summer bathin’ in the seas of Durne. Them Durnish seas woul’ surely cure all me ails, m’lady. Wouldn’ tha’ just be loverly?” He mused as he fussed over the food.

Brienne sighed, nodding. “Tha’ does soun’ loverly, Pod.”

Pod glanced up at her, warmth in his friendly eyes. “Wha’ you think you’ll be doin’ with them coins, then? Wha’ do you dream on, m’lady?”

Brienne paused for a moment. She could follow Pod’s lead… make a joke about buying a bouquet of flowers every day and moving to the Red Keep. There was something about the way he had asked her, that had her shifting her weight on the stool, looking down into her basket of flowers. She picked up a single daisy and fussed with the wilted petals, deciding on honesty instead. “I s’pose I wan’ wha’ everyone else wan’s.” She took a deep breath, her focus going soft. “A nice room juss for me, wi’ a fire always cracklin’ for me to warm me ‘ands and face. I don’ need much… juss a chair big ‘nough for me. Aooww, iffin I ‘ad a chair made for me, I wouldn’ leave until it were spring”

Pod’s gaze was focused on the meal he was preparing for her, but she knew he hadn’t stopped listening. She was grateful he didn’t look at her though. She probably would lose her nerve if she had his full attention. “Somethin’ nice for me… fresh frui’ or somethin’… happles or straw’bries… somethin’. I’d get me own gloves… n’ iffin I’m really lucky” Brienne’s voice was barely loud enough to hear over the street traffic passing her by. “Iffin I really ‘ad more’n a scrap of luck, there woul’ be summun t’ share it wi’. An ‘ead restin’ on me knee, no’ askin’ for much. Juss summon to share it all wi’.”

Pod had some stewed vegetables and the meat (it looked and smelled like aurochs, bless him for staying true to his promise) on a platter, and he handed it to her with a smile. “Tha’ soun’s migh’y loverly, m’lady”

Brienne grimaced with a self-conscious laugh, pulling her pruning knife out from her basket to cut into her miniature feast. “I’m no’ a lady, Pod.”

Pod turned away without another word, greeting a new patron as if he hadn’t heard her. As Brienne tucked into her meal, she watched and listened to people passing her by. Soon a voice reached her ears that had her scrambling to finish her meal so she could make her escape. She could hear her father.

“’ome? Wha’ do I wan’ t’ go ‘ome for? ‘Tis barely time for supper… my Brienne’ll be ‘ere somewhere. She oughta be good for ‘alf a gold draggin for ‘er lovin’ da’” Brienne wrinkled her nose in distaste, trying to shift herself into a shadow. She could see him turning the corner into the open area of the market square, peering around for her, flanked by two cronies. Podrick glanced over at her with concern, but another look up, and he had caught sight of her father as well. Podrick moved over slightly, blocking her from being seen as she sat.

“Lovin’?” one of them was chortling “Tha’s a laugh, Bronn. You ain’ been near ‘er for nigh onna month naow.”

Brienne could see Bronn Tarth glaring at his mate, shoving him away. She had never met her mother, but according to Bronn Brienne’s height was all from her mother, and she had only inherited his bad temper and wretched face. “Wha’ the fuck tha’ got to do wi’ it? Wha’ ‘alf a draggin after all I give ‘er?”

The other crony was clearly confused as Bronn poked his nose into an alleyway, continuing his investigation. “Wha’ in the Sev’n you ever give t’ ‘er?”

Bronn pulled his knife out, looking like he was ready to stab his crony with it, but at the last minute decided to keep strolling through the square, slowly getting closer to her spot next to Podrick’s stall, picking his teeth with it instead. Brienne was almost done eating, if she could hide until Bronn was across the street, she had a chance he wouldn’t spot her immediately when she stood.

“I give ‘er everythin’!” He declared, spitting out whatever his knife had dug out. “I give ‘er the grea’est fuckin’ gift any ‘uman can give to ‘nother.” His associates both drew blank looks as they followed behind him. “Life!” Bronn snapped at them both. “I introduced ‘er to th’ worl’, wi’ all its wonders n’ marvels. The sun tha’ shines, the moon tha’ glows… all of King’s Landin’ to roam abou’ sellin’ ‘er fuckin’ violets, n’ then I disappear for ‘er to enjoy it all on ‘er own. Iffin tha’ ain’ worth ‘alf a draggin, I’ll make ‘er eat me belt.”

One of Bronn’s lackeys nodded sagely as Bronn replaced his knife. They were standing by one of the alehouses, and Brienne watched them carefully. Pod had quietly taken her platter back from her, and she was clinging to her basket to try and make her way out of the square. Bronn had shifted his focus to the man leaned up against the building, snoring away.

“Good evenin’, Gerrold!” He shouted with glee as the man startled awake. The man took only a second to blink away the sleep in his eyes before he recognized the man who woke him.

“No’ a bronze penny” he groused before deliberately crossing his arms and letting out a theatrical snore.

Bronn shrugged, undeterred. The keeper of the alehouse poked his head out the door at the ruckus and frowned at Bronn. Bronn smiled widely at him. “Well, good evenin’ Alkwin!”

The alehouse keeper’s frown was a mirror to the snoring Gerrold’s. “No’ a bronze penny.” He said with a snort as he shut the door in Bronn’s face. Bronn was facing away from Brienne as he huffed at the closed door, muttering about a lack of “common fuckin’ decency”. Brienne took the chance that he’d stay distracted by the alehouse patrons and stood up, determinedly striding to the other side of the square, praying to the Crone that her luck would hold.

“Brienne, m’ beauty!” She could practically hear the Crone cackling at her. She was out of luck for the night; Bronn had spotted her and was making his way over. His lackeys stayed put, thankfully, and she willed steel into her spine as she turned to face her father. She peered down at him, and wrinkled her nose when he smirked at her. Gods, how had she been borne of someone so _smug_?

“No’ a bronze penny.” She declared, and turned away. Bronn snarled a little, grabbing her arm. His grip was tight, but Brienne refused to wince at the pain.

“’ere, you come ‘ere, Brienne.” She glared at him, grabbing a finger and twisting it. Bronn released her with a sharp intake of breath, returning his daughter’s glare with a pigheaded outrage. However, he didn’t grab for her again.

“I ain’ givin’ any of me ‘ard-earned coins an let you pass ‘em over to Alkwin wivvout a secon’ though’.” She scowled, readjusting her sleeve primly.

Bronn pouted, and Brienne pulled a face at how out of place the look was on a grown man. He changed tactics, pleading with her, “Naow, you wouldn’ ‘ave th’ ‘eart to send me ‘ome to your second mum wivvout a single drop o’ liquid protection, woul’ ya?”

Brienne snorted, unable to stop from rolling her eyes. “Second mum, indeed” she scoffed. Lollys was a perfect tempestuous match for Bronn, but they were no more husband and wife than Brienne was Queen of all Westeros.

Bronn sighed sorrowfully, “I’d marry ‘er in an ‘eartbeat, Brienne… it’s me tha’ suffers by no’ bein’ married to ‘er. I’m a slave to tha’ woman, n’ all I need is ‘alf a draggin to ge’ me through the nigh’ wi’ ‘er.”

Brienne groaned, her shoulders slumping in defeat. More to shut Bronn up before he complained her ear off, she pulled two silver stags out from her purse, trying her best not to let the other coins jingle. “Iffin I ‘adn’ ‘ad a bi’ of luck meself las’ nigh’… well, I did, n’ there’s the las’ you can ever ax me for.” She passed the coins over to Bronn, who was hardly able to contain his glee.

“Thank you, Brienne. You’re a noble gel, n’ a credit to Tarth.” He crowed with laughter as he sauntered back over to the alehouse, tapping on the glass with the two coins. His cronies, clapped him on the back, their eyes focused on the coins in Bronn’s hand, and soon all three men were calling for beer inside the alehouse.

Brienne shook her head at her father. She couldn’t begin to count the times she had cursed his name for bringing the pair of them to this city. He had dove into the corruption and the uncertainty of Flea Bottom with elation, but Brienne had barely been able to find a way to survive it. Waving a final goodbye to Podrick, she exited the market square and set off towards her small garret room down the lane. She clutched her coin purse to her chest, and she felt a new surge of determination. She pondered her father, and wondered again how they could possibly be related. He hadn’t been a cruel man, but like most men on Tarth, had thought a firm hand was needed to raise children. When Brienne had grown taller than him, she had made it clear that method of parenting would no longer hold water. Since that day, Bronn frequently swung between ignoring her completely and trying to charm his way into her affections.

 _Naow ‘e don’ even seem charmin’. No’ hafter…_ Brienne paused outside her door, blinking as her thoughts, unbidden, went to Jaime. She was frozen on the stoop, all the thoughts she had pushed away before Podrick’s food came back in a rush. There was no room in her thoughts for her father.

 _Was ‘e really serious? Tha’ man… tha’ Jaime Lannister… iffin I hever wan’ outta this dump, ‘e’s the only one ‘oo can ‘elp me._ She pushed open the doorway, and made her way up the dark, dusty stairway to her garret. She shivered as she pushed open the door to the cold room, stalking over to her bed and grabbing the threadbare blanket from her mattress. Wrapping herself in it, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her flower basket fall. Pulling out the coin purse, she weighed it in her hands, examining it closely. A final shiver at the cold made the decision for her, and she closed her fist on the purse.

 _Warrior… ‘elp me to be brave._ She swallowed, steeling her shoulders. _Naow… wha’ was tha’ address ‘e told ‘is brother?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, BRONN IS PLAYING THE PART OF BRIENNE'S FATHER. In my mind, Selwyn Tarth is exactly like Zeus from Disney's Hercules, and I couldn't in good conscience make Selwyn the little turd Alfred is when there's Bronn just… SITTING THERE. Like Bronn IS Alfred P. Doolittle. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Did I decide in the heat of the moment to include Tywin just through other people calling him a bastard and a cunt? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> Once again, I am playing it fast and loose with the dialect stuff here. There's only so much I can catch re-reading this poor thing over and over again. There are some things I'm trying to keep consistent for later on when Higgins!Jaime is attempting to teach Eliza!Brienne proper elocution, but outside of that... it's anyone's game.
> 
> Next chapter... Jaime makes his snarky return with a vengeance! I like the narrative of the movie better in terms of giving us just a taste of Alfred right after "Wouldn't it be Loverly", and then getting all of his ridiculous awfulness later on with ALL of "With a Little Bit of Luck" rather than splitting it up into two parts of the same song like the stage version does.


	3. I'm an Ordinary Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne makes a proposition, and Jaime makes a bet. Brienne also throws more things at Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Apologies for this taking longer than 2 weeks to churn out. In my defense, it is MUCH longer than the first two chapters. It's got a lot of meat on its bones, and a lot of shit goes down.  
> I'm [unadulteratedkr](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com), on tumblr, come say hi!

The house at 27 Casterly Street suited the man who owned it to every degree. Every other house on the lane displayed sweet little birdbaths and planted white and pink roses in their front garden; Jaime Lannister insisted on a fully functional water fountain and ivy curling around glorious young apple trees. Where the other opulent homes were painted in a classic white with white trim, Jaime Lannister had removed the white plaster to expose a lovely red brick and decided mahogany wood stained so dark it almost looked black was to be the trim for his home. The only feature the house shared with any of its neighbors were the lovely silk white curtains lining every window. Of course, against the red brick and black trim, it made the house look even more bizarre in comparison. Neighbors would past it and tut to one another that the home was lavish, tasteful, and completely out of place.

If a passerby were to look in through one of the open windows, they would see the lushness of 27 Casterly Street was no façade, and that the interior was just as rich as the exterior. Facing the street were the windows to Jaime Lannister’s library, a room dedicated to a love of knowledge. The room was two stories tall, expanded when Jaime had bought the townhouse, and every single wall was crammed with cedar wood shelves built into the wall, all of them pleasantly groaning under the weight of their books. The ground floor was a mixture of cozy eccentricities. A plush couch was tucked into a corner near a phonograph and a chalkboard with phonetic symbols scribbled on the surface, a magnificent desk had models of the human mouth sculpted from clay with pins sticking from them, labelled with more diacritic marks, and every flat surface seemed to be the home to a stack of scrawling notes done at the hand of the library’s master. Another set of almost indulgently comfortable upholstered chairs sat in front of the fireplace which constantly crackled with a cheery blaze whenever the library’s master was in attendance. The housekeeper, Ms. Margaery Tyrell, would feel her hands start to itch every day she was in the room ensuring things were kept tidy, but would be forced to abstain by her employer. She would do her duty with an arched brow of disapproval, and Jaime often mused there were only too many civil discourses between housekeeper and employer that 27 Casterly Street could weather without Gold Cloaks being involved. The Port Incident alone had given his Ms. Tyrell a twitch that had lasted for three days.

The peace within the house had held nicely even as Jaime had brought home an unexpected guest that evening. Jaime strongly suspected his housekeeper of practicing for the inevitable disasters he could possibly bring down upon the household, and felt it was his solemn duty to provide an opportunity to put the practice to work. It took barely enough time for Jaime and Tyrion to finish a glass of brandy (Jaime wisely deciding not to antagonize Margaery twice in one night by going for the port), for his butler Peckledon to announce Tyrion’s rooms were ready. Promising to spend all day tomorrow delving into each other’s work, Tyrion bid his brother good night.

Jaime lingered in his library, pulling out his notebook, determined to copy down his notes for tomorrow. He kicked off both his shoes, muttering to himself as he poked his head under the couch. “Where did the Stranger leave those damned slippers of mine?”

Finding one resting by the fireplace hearth and the other under his desk, he sank into them and his chair with a sigh. He pulled the slippers on, mumbling nonsense as he resigned himself to having only one fire-warmed slipper.The fire and the warm glow from his desk lamp threatened to lull him to sleep, but he resolutely pulled out a fountain pen to begin copying his work down into his manuscript notes on the desk. He had listened to a taxi driver attempting to sound Northern to appeal to his clientele for the evening, a former mistress from the Streets of Silk chastising her recently knighted husband, and his evening had come to a close with that pestering flower girl. Each entry was copied down neatly, along with Jaime’s notes on the person themselves.

_Male, middle-aged, found waiting with his taxi for Northern passengers outside the entrance to the Dragon Pit. Two dialects copied down. First dialect overheard when subject spoke to his horse. Second dialect heard when greeting his two Northern passengers. Hypothesis: attempting Northern dialect sourced from a mercenary met from Winterfell, current location is two blocks south of the Streets of Silk. Raised within two blocks of Iron Gate. Tone: raspy, nasal._

_Female, senior, found exiting restaurant on Rhaenys’ Hill with husband. Unable to hear husband’s responses, following notes are on female subject’s dialect only. Note the inconsistency with the ŋ and N sound. Hypothesis: originally raised and reached maturity on the Streets of Silk, married out of profession in brothel. Tone: melody present, harsher with subject’s age._

Jaime paused before he began the notes for his last dialect of the night, rubbing his nose with a grin. She had truly been a wonder, boldly confronting him in front of the gentry and the gods themselves. _Like the Warrior had sent me a foul-mouthed champion to fight_ , he reflected as he noted her details down. _Female, young adult, found selling flowers in front of King’s Iron Theatre. Confirmed to have originated from Tarth through conversation (not transcribed) with subject. Hypothesis: current location is three blocks of the Flea Bottom market square. Tone, rich, some sense of melody._

Jaime gripped his pen tightly, chastising himself as he resisted the temptation to describe the wench’s voice as lovely. _You’re a professor, godsdammit, not a poet._ He glowered at the pen; the traitorous tool had dabbed a stroke of ink to start the word lovely, and he was irate that the blemish would remind him of his moment of whimsy. He sat back in his chair and massaged his temples, staring into the crackling fire. Tyrion had pulled Jaime away from further confrontation earlier in the night, but he had been close to dragging the wench along with them so he could start fulfilling his declaration to continue teaching elocution to the citizens of King’s Landing.

Jaime and Tyrion both had defied Tywin Lannister’s demands of their education, and both had ended up in the field of linguistics. Their father had wanted Jaime to nose his way into the royal class through his higher education; Jaime had created a reputation for being a caustic genius and settled firmly into the upper class, completely unconcerned with the machinations of court. Instead, he puttered around the very docks owned by his father, scribbling down the dialects he heard, trying to track what led to such an assassination of the Common Tongue.

Tyrion, on the other hand, had been expected to fade into obscurity so he operate behind the scenes with Tywin’s shipping interests. Instead, Jaime’s brother had developed a thirst for studying the politics of Westeros, and specifically seeing if the study of dialect could provide the Crown common ground with its outlying Kingdoms. It had also landed Tyrion in the upper class, with a reputation that made him welcome in every salon in the city. Tywin had expressed his fury by completely ignoring both of his sons, and that suited Jaime and Tyrion just fine. Jaime had spent the past fifteen years establishing his catalogue of the dialects of Westeros, and had indulged in teaching the specifics of elocution to two pupils. The first was his very own butler Peckledon, and the second… well, the second had him fleeing for the hills just thinking about the smarmy bastard. Jaime hadn’t been tempted to take on another pupil until tonight when the wench with the lovely tone and atrocious pronunciation had tossed violets at his face. He had tossed the contents of his coin purse into her basket, foolishly daring her to remember him, now irritated at his fascination with this woman.

_I have lived for 40 something years on this earth without the influence of a woman in my life; I will not let that blue-eyed fiend usurp my serenity._ His memory betrayed his mental claim on serenity, with those incredible blue eyes. She had gestured to her face when claiming it was what kept her in the gutters, and Jaime was inflamed again at the mere suggestion. No one in their right mind would turn away eyes like that. Eyes like the seas of her homeland of Tarth, like the sapphires that sat amongst the Crown jewels… eyes like the blue violets she had hurled at him. _No, enough. I am a quiet living man who prefers to spend the evening in a silent room, the atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered crypt. I don’t need her putting my back against the wall._ He sighed, tucking away his fountain pen in its case, and running a hand through his hair before retiring for the night.

The next morning, all dreams and frustrations about blue eyes in a woman built like a statue of the Maiden and Warrior were forgotten as he and Tyrion battled over dialects in the library.

“No, no no! Tyrion, you must listen, _listen!_ ” Jaime whirled around and strode over to his phonograph, resetting it to the beginning of the record.

“Aaaaaaaaaaawwwwwww, Aaaaaaaaa, Aaaaeeeeee, AAaaaeeeiiiii, Eeeeeeeee, Eeeeeeeiiii, Iiiiiiiiiii” blared out from the horn, and Jaime mouthed along with it, gesturing wildly as each sound transitioned.

“You cannot claim any person is descended from the ancient house of Martell if they refuse to acknowledge a glottal stop in between vowel sounds. You have spent at least 4 years there in total, how _can_ you try and tell me that ponce Manfrey is anything more than a distant cousin when he glides from vowel to vowel like a Stormlander? Listen to them one more time.” Jaime reset the record again, turning the volume down slightly, slowing down the rotation of the phonograph. Tyrion cringed as it started playing again.

“Must I? I say, Jaime… I’m really quite done in for a full morning” he started to complain, but Jaime shushed him, pointing once more at his chalkboard of phonetic markings. Soon Pia had entered with reinforcements in the form of fresh fruit, cheeses, and tea. Tyrion sighed in resignation, and presently found himself leaning in with a frown of concentration to listen to the record droning on with vowel sounds.

\--

The sound of the front doorbell quite escaped the notice of both men, but Peckledon was ready and waiting to invite the woman hovering uncertainly on the front stoop. Brienne had almost turned back four times that morning, and was ready to bolt when the door to the townhome swung open. She gawked at the elegant entryway and the angular butler looking expectantly at her.

“Yes, miss?” he inquired politely. Brienne remembered herself, and straightened her spine, preparing for battle.

“I’m ‘ere to speak to th’ master of th’ ‘ouse,” Brienne announced, sounding much braver than she actually was. She had practiced her greeting the entire walk from Flea Bottom; it had given her something to focus on instead of the curious and affronted glances she had received as she travelled towards Casterly Street. The butler, however, took her appearance in stride and opened the door to her.

“Wait here, please.” He asked her, before walking down the length of the hallway and disappearing behind a door. Brienne’s hands were shaking, and she felt as if she was about to bring the entire building down if she accidentally brushed up against a single piece of it. She had put on the nicest clothes she could find in the back of her small closet, a dark velvet jacket with holes only visible if you really looked, a white apron she had tried to scrub clean a month ago with little success, and her weather-beaten hat sported a single daisy, in an attempt to dress up for the neighborhood. There was really no denying it, however. Brienne felt distinctly out of place.

Brienne startled as the butler regained her attention, the door he had disappeared behind opening once more, and she felt her momentary courage slip. Another member of the household, a lovely, petite brunette with an air of authority walked down the hall behind him. She looked Brienne over with an inscrutable eye. “I am Margaery Tyrell, the housekeeper. May I have your name please, miss?”

“Me name? Wha’ d’ya need me name for? ‘E don’ know me by name, but I got business wivv the Professor.”

Margaery peered at her but sighed before rapping smartly on the door, walking through it without a response to leave Brienne behind.

\--

Margaery knocked on the door to the library once before letting herself in, waiting expectantly for Jaime to silence the droning gramophone.

“Yes, what is it, Ms. Tyrell?” Jaime was rather unused to his housekeeper being the first one to disturb the peace in the morning.

“There’s a young woman here who wants to see you.”

Jaime blinked, glancing at his brother, utterly perplexed. “A young woman?” What does she want?”

“She’s quite a common-looking girl, and I don’t know precisely why she’s here. I did think however, you might want her to talk into your machine.” Margaery looked very satisfied with herself in that moment, and Jaime grinned at her initiative.

“Well done, Ms. Tyrell! Tell me, has she a gastly accent?” Jaime seemed to be resisting the temptation to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Very interesting, yes. Shall I show her in?”

“Please do.” Margaery exited back into the main hall, and Jaime turned to his brother, practically giddy. “You’re in luck, Tyrion! I’ll show you how I make records. We’ll set her talking, I’ll take her down first in Barristan’s Visible Speech and then in broad Andalese. From there, you can put her on the phonograph and turn her on when you want with the written transcripts before you.” As Jaime had gleefully chattered on, Tyrion started shuffling the pages filled with scratches and scribbles from the morning to the side.

Jaime turned his focus away from the door, fiddling with an unpressed cylinder and the recording device, when that _voice_ invaded his library. _Oh, no. No, no, no, not in a million winters._

“Good mornin’, gentlemun. Migh’ I ‘ave a word wiv you?”

Jaime immediately stiffened, turning around swiftly, and walked right past the wench from last night to fling the door open as he declared, “No, no. Absolutely not! She's of no use, I've already got enough of her corner of Flea Bottom, and I won't waste a cylinder on that. Be off with you, wench. I don't want you." _Liar_ , his brain traitorously whispered as the wench went pale with anger.

"Don' you go bein' so rude to me, you ain't heven 'eard wha' I come for" She remained stubbornly planted right inside the library, ignoring the open door.

"Show her out, Ms. Tyrell, I don't care to hear from this terror any further,” Jaime was close to becoming decidedly grumpy at this point because the terror in question straightened to her full height, _good Gods she’s tall_ , and looked every inch a ruffled, woebegone princess refusing to leave.

"Aoww, we are proud, ain' we? You weren' so proud las' nigh', offerin' anyone a lesson. I 'eard you say so. I ain't comin' 'ere for no complimen', and if my money's not good 'nough, I'll go elsewhere." She turned away, and Jaime felt all of his resolve melt.

Jaime couldn’t help it. He was charmed by her rough speech and her pride, and cocked his head. "Good enough for what? Be specific, wench." He caught a glimpse of his brother, watching them gleefully like he was at a mummer’s play.

The proud façade faltered a bit as she turned back to Jaime. It was so much easier for her to tell him off, but she continued on doggedly. "I'm come to 'ave lessons… an' I'll pay for 'em, on me 'onor."

_Oh, the Warrior does love a challenge, doesn’t he?_ Jaime was sorely tempted to take her up on her offer right there and then. She was fierce enough to not give up; the violets she had flung at him last night were a clear indicator. She had somehow remembered his home address in the midst of their confrontation last night, and that certainly showed the wench had a sharp mind. But Jaime was not about to lose his sense of reason just because this silly girl in front of him had shown a single spark. He was not about to make the mistakes he had made with his last pupil. His eyebrows went up, and he smirked, determined to egg on the bedraggled woman in his library. "Well! And what do you expect me to say to that?"

"You could ax me to sit down, for a start" The wench glowered at him, and Jaime resisted the urge to snort. _As if she would know how a lady’s supposed to be treated._

"Sit down."

"Tha' don' sound like you're axing" The wench was so _stubborn._ Jaime gritted his teeth and looked up at her with a dangerous calm on his face.

" _Sit down, wench"_ Jaime’s voice was low and biting, and she went pale again. He heard Tyrion choke on a gulp of tea.

"I didn' come all the way down 'ere to be treated like this, I won' 'ave you treatin' me like dirt" She looked around the room for aid and settled on Margaery, who shot a frustrated glower towards Jaime.

Margaery took the wench’s elbow kindly. “Won’t you please tell us your name, my dear?” Jaime would have whistled in amazement if it had been appropriate at how gentle his housekeeper was being with the woman.

The girl, gazed down shyly at Margaery, and her face softened. “Brienne Tarth, miss” Jaime became even more annoyed at the triumph of his housekeeper and strutted over to his desk. He definitely did not sulk as he plopped himself down in his chair.

Won't you please sit down, Ms. Tarth?"

"Thankee, miss" The girl, _Brienne,_ sat down delicately, and glanced back over at Jaime. He leaned forward, surreptitiously turning on his recorder.

"Let us say I decide to take you on as my pupil, what's in it for me?" Brienne frowned, biting her lip as she fiddled with her small purse. Jaime wasn’t sure if he liked it more or less when she was embarrassed.

"I… aow, sir, I cann' accept all the coins you givven me, so I woul' pay 'em back to you as is proper. A bronze penny heach week for lessons. T’ teach me to talk more genteel, so I can try n’ work in a real shop"

Jaime sat back for a minute, charmed by her honesty and her humility. It was so unlike him, he almost forgot he was trying to goad her. Almost. "A whole bronze penny. You know, Tyrion, compared to Father's millions, that's like she's offering me a hundred gold dragons" Jaime had pushed himself up from his chair as he spoke, and was able to look down at her with a smile. Brienne blinked at his grin, and then she seemed to latch onto the last thing he had said. Jaime could see her ridiculously blue eyes go wide with horror.

"Gold draggins?! I cann' pay hany gold draggins!" She yelped, standing up so fast, Jaime almost put a crick in his neck trying to follow her.

"Hush, wench!” He chastised her, his words making no impact as Brienne fretted.

"Iffin you don' wan' to teach me, you could jus' say it. Iffin I knew you'd treat me like this, I'd 'ave stayed 'ome." A large, slow tear escaped from her eye, and then another, and she sniffed, wiping her nose with a corner of her apron. _Warrior give me strength, she’s_ crying. Jaime was absolutely useless when it came to tears. He looked over at Tyrion for help, and glared when he saw the man doubled over with laughter at Jaime’s discomfort.

“Stop sniveling” Jaime practically begged, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and holding it out to Brienne.

" _"_ I'm NOT snivvlin'" Brienne hiccupped slightly, blinking at the handkerchief.

"Liar, and I'll do more than toss coins at you if you keep this nonsense up, now stop sniveling!"

"Iffin anyone from back ‘ome ‘eard you talkin’ like that, they’d think you was me father" Brienne sniffed mournfully. Jaime decided to relent a little.

"If I agree to this, I'd be worse than two fathers." Jaime’s cross face softened when Brienne’s tears seems to stop at his tentative agreement, and she frowned at his handkerchief, still outstretched to her.

"Why you 'anding me tha'?" She looked up at him, and Jaime hastily stuffed it in her hand.

"To wipe your eyes and any other place on your face that is wet. It's yours to keep, since you insist on using your skirt." He retreated back over to the safety of his desk, and Tyrion finally seemed to have regained control of himself. His brother strode over with a grin.

"Jaime… I find myself interested! What about your boast last night? You claimed you could pass her off as a Lady from a Great House given six months. If you can pass her off as a descendant of one of the Andals at the King's Unification Feast, I'll say you're the greatest teacher alive. In fact, I bet you all the expenses of the experiment you can't do it. I'll even toss in a casket of the finest Dornish Red to seal the deal."

Brienne was listening closely, and her red-rimmed eyes crinkled with a smile down at Tyrion. "You're a good'un, thank you Cap'n"

Jaime glanced over at Brienne, and a mischievous grin spread over his face slowly. "It's almost irresistible… she's so full of promise, and yet so horribly dirty"

Brienne yelped again, this time indignant. Jaime decided he preferred her like this, ready to fight him and anyone else who dared look down at her. "I ain' dirty!” She insisted, wiping at her face furiously with his handkerchief, “I washed me 'ands and face before I come, I did."

Jaime clapped his hands, rubbing them together, his brain already whirring with possibilities. "I'll take it! I'll make a princess of this prattle-filled gutter-snipe. We'll start today, this moment even. Ms. Tyrell, take her away and clean her… Sandpaper, if it won't come off. Do you have a fire going in the kitchen?"

"Yes, sir but-"

"Take her clothes off and burn them and order some new ones… Just wrap her in brown paper until they come."

Brienne gasped, holding the handkerchief up to her breast protectively. "You're no gentlemun to talk to me like tha', I won' 'ave you talkin' 'bout me clothes like tha'"

Jaime stalked back over to Brienne, a cheerful smirk on his face. "Brienne, if I am to turn you into a Lady, I _will_ be talking about your clothes, your posture, your voice… we have a lot of work to do, and I will not have you arguing with me. Take her away, Ms. Tyrell. If she gives you any trouble, I'm sure you can tie her up with string along with the brown paper."

"'Ow _dare you_ "

Margaery sputtered and stood herself in between Jaime and Brienne, who was once more going pale with anger. "Professor Lannister, you must be reasonable, you must. You can't walk over everybody like this."

"I? Walk over everybody? My dear Ms. Tyrell. I had no intention of walking over anybody. I merely suggested we be kind to this poor woman. I must not have expressed myself clearly, no doubt to shield her delicacy and yours." Jaime blinked almost lazily, a move which had no effect on his housekeeper. _I seem to have surrounded myself with Your disciples today_ he thought errantly towards the Warrior.

"But, Professor, you cannot take a girl like this off the street as if you are picking up a pebble on the shore!"

"Why not?"

"Why not? You don't know anything about her! What about her family, she could be married!" Margaery knew she had made a good point, but Brienne’s scoff spared Jaime any guilt.

"Ga'rn"

Jaime grinned. "You see, Ms. Tyrell? As Brienne so eloquently put it, "ga'rn"

Brienne shifted in the chair uneasily, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. "'oo woul' wan' to marry me?"

Jaime’s eyes flashed, and he allowed himself to smile with the full force of his Lannister charm behind it. "By the Seven, Brienne… the streets will be strewn with the bodies of men thrusting themselves upon their swords by the time I'm done with you."

"You've gone madder than a Targy, you 'ave. I won' 'ave no madmun teachin' me" Brienne looked about ready to faint, and Jaime was well and truly determined by now to goad her into staying.

"Mad, am I? Very well, Ms. Tyrell… don't order those new clothes, get Peckledon down here to help you toss her out the window." Jaime turned away, taking a sheaf of papers from his desk and tapping them on its surface to arrange them neatly.

"Professor Lannister. That is enough!” Margaery seemed determined to protect Brienne from Jaime’s mercurial behavior, and she turned to the girl. “Go home to your parents, dear girl."

Brienne stiffened, her hands white from the force she was gripping her bag with. "I ain't got no parents"

Jaime walked over to the two women, this time putting himself in between his housekeeper and Brienne. "Alas, Ms. Tyrell… you see? She ain't got no parents. So what's the fuss? Nobody wants her; she's of no use to anyone but me. Go on, take her upstairs!"

"But what's to become of her? Is she to be paid, is she a member of the household? You must be sensible, Professor." Margaery glanced at Tyrion, and Jaime could have sworn her heard her mutter, “ _By the Seven, help me”_ at him in a whisper.

Tyrion peered up at both Jaime and Brienne, evaluating them both. He saw Jaime’s blood was up, but the shrewd man didn’t fail to notice Brienne’s chin was beginning to wobble from the strain of this conversation. "Does it occur to you, Jaime… the girl here might have some feelings on the matter?"

"No I don't think so, no feelings we need worry about. Do you, Brienne?"

"I got me feelings same as anyone else." Brienne seemed to be wilting. Jaime felt a rush of sympathy for the poor wench. He could tell she knew they were all talking over her, and it made her eyes look like they could wreck a ship at sea. _Enough poetry, Lannister!_ He scolded himself.

"Professor Lannister, I must know on what terms she is to be here. What will become of her in six months? You must look ahead a little." Margaery was determined, there was no question. But this time, Jaime was fully prepared with his argument.

He wandered over to the small table with the morning’s earlier refreshments as he heatedly replied, "What will become of her if we leave her languishing in the streets of Flea Bottom, Ms. Tyrell? Answer me that."

Margaery huffed in annoyance at her employer. "That is not a fair question, Professor. What-"

"When I'm done, we'll throw her back, how does that sound to you, Brienne?" _There it is._ The chin wobble was gone, once more replaced by the steel he had seen when she first refused to leave. This time, she used it to be brave enough to walk out.

"You've got no feelin' 'eart in ya to talk about me as like I ain't 'ere. I've 'ad 'nough of this, I'm goin'" Brienne turned for the door, fully intending to stroll out.

"Have a strawberry, Brienne" Jaime had stopped her at the door, holding out a plate of the lush fruit, sliced and laid out in a beautiful circular pattern. They were one of his favorite indulgences, and he felt a rush as he saw Brienne’s eyes go wide. She glanced up at him, trying not to look too eager.

"'Ow do I know wha' migh' be in 'em? I'm not 'bout to be drugged by the likes of you"

Jaime and Brienne could have been the only two people in the room at that moment. Jaime plucked a strawberry slice from the plate and held it up between them. "Pledge of good faith. I'll take one half, and you take the other.”

He took a bite out of one half, smiling with that lion smile he knew was impossible to look away from. Brienne’s mouth was parted in both shock and hunger, and he gently placed the other half of the strawberry against her lips. She bit down on it, her eyes closing for a moment in a simple joy at the taste of fresh fruit. Jaime leaned towards her, as he placed the plate of strawberries back down.

"If you stay, you'll have strawberries every day by the bucketload."

"I cann' heven imagine it…" Brienne murmured, her eyes opening again, a hint of her dreams swirling in the blue. Jaime grinned, knowing he had her. He grabbed both of her hands and spun her out into the hallway, daring her to keep dreaming.

"Think of it Brienne, think of strawberries and violets and gold and sapphires!"

Brienne tugged away from him at the bottom of the main staircase, gaping at his wildness. "I don' wan' no gold or sapphires, I don' need 'em" Tyrion cleared his throat, following the pair out of the library.

"Jaime, I must interfere. Ms. Tyrell makes several excellent points. If this woman puts herself into your hands for six months, I insist she knows exactly what this experiment will entail.”

Jaime sighed, resigned to being responsible for a half moment. He had made it up about three steps before Brienne had torn her hand from his, and he took a moment to enjoy having the height advantage from there. He looked down on her, his face fierce. "Brienne.” He claimed her attention with her name. “You are to stay here for the next six months, learning how to speak beautifully, just like a lady of a flower shop. If you're good and do as you're told, you'll sleep in a proper bedroom, be fed and warm, and supplied with all the strawberries your heart desires." Jaime really couldn’t help himself at this point, and a wicked gleam in his eye caused Tyrion to groan and put his head in his hands. "If you're idle, I'll drag you to the kitchen to sleep with the beetles and make you throw those strawberries into the fire. At the end of six months, you'll be taken to the Red Keep in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the King discovers you're a sea-rat from Flea Bottom, he'll have both of us taken to the city gates, beheaded, and our heads will live at the top of the Keep until we poison the crows who feed upon us. But if you succeed… I'll have you dropped right in front of the closest flower shop with a bag of 20 gold dragons in your hand. Do you accept? If you do refuse, we will all know you to be the most ungrateful, dishonorable wench in all seven Kingdoms, and the spirits of your ancestors will weep for you." Brienne couldn’t seem to decide whether to be frightened, offended, or pleased as she gaped at Jaime.

Jaime looked over at his brother, who just threw his hands up and turned away to go back into the library.

"Ms. Tyrell?"

Margaery sighed, taking Brienne by the elbow and leading her up the stairs past Jaime. "Come with me, Brienne."

By the time the two women reached the first landing, Brienne seemed to have finally settled on outrage at Jaime, and he just grinned as she ranted at him, "You're a grea’ bully, n' don' think I'll let you drag me anywhere"

Margaery continued to tug her up the stairs. "Don't answer back, Brienne, it will just encourage him"

"I'll drag you in a minute, just you try me!"

" _Brienne!_ "

Any further japes at his expense were silenced by a door shutting upstairs, and Jaime wore a self-satisfied grin as he entered the library again to join the thoroughly unsettled Tyrion.

“Jaime, if Ms. Tarth is staying here, I will feel responsible for her. I hope we can both agree there is to be no advantage taken of her position?”

_Tyrion looks strange when he’s serious_ , Jaime mused. “That great beast of a woman? Sacred as the Maiden, I assure you.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, and _yes, definitely strange to see him this serious, what is my brother playing at?_

“Do not turn to flowery poetry with me, brother. This is no trifling matter. Do you vow you are a man of good character where women are concerned?”

Jaime snorted as he mounted the library’s spiral staircase to return a book to its proper shelf. “Have you ever met a man of good character where women are concerned?”

Tyrion settled back into his chair, deliberately not looking at Jaime. “Yes, very frequently.” Jaime raised his eyebrow, but made no further attempt to goad Tyrion into admitting the blatant lie.

“I haven’t. I find the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious and a damned nuisance.” Jaime stared thoughtfully at the books as he brushed off a bit of unseen dust. “I also find the moment I become friends with a woman I become selfish and tyrannical.” He heard Tyrion snort from below him, and pretended to ignore the snort along with the fact that he had indeed been rather selfish and tyrannical in the behavior he had just exhibited in front of Brienne.

“So! Here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so. I’m just like the next man, after all.”

Tyrion, glancing up at Jaime with a fond look, retorted. “There are no men like you, Jaime. Just you.”

Jaime grinned, making his way down the spiral stairs leisurely. “I am completely ordinary, brother. I assure you. I desire nothing more than an ordinary chance to live exactly as I like and do precisely what I want.” Tyrion seemed ready to argue, but Jaime raised his hand to stop him, “No, I am absolutely average with no eccentric whim, just a determination to do exactly whatever I think is best for me.” His eyes sharpened. “But to let a woman into that life invites a total lack of serenity. I won’t have a woman inserting herself into my life and my home, redecorating the house from the cellar to the attic and then decide it’s time to overhaul me!”

Jaime continued, practically jogging down the rest of the spiral, expanding passionately, “To let a woman in your life is to learn every plan you’ve ever had will be shot down for her own, and then both of you will end up doing something neither wanted to do in the first place! If I were determined to talk about Ser Arthur Dayne or the legend of the Mad King, she would insist on the ridiculousness of Florian and Jonquil. No I won’t have a night of intelligent discourse be taken over with flowery poetry.” Jaime tossed the word back at his brother, his irritation from last night manifesting once more. “I so thoroughly despise the idea of a woman meeting me and immediately scurrying out to buy a wedding band; should that happen at any point in these six months, I ask you drag me from the house to the nearest maester so he can start drilling into my teeth!”

Tyrion sighed, and gave a long-suffering look to his brother. “Of course, brother. I’ll be sure to drag you to the maester just as soon as my growth spurt hits me.”

\--

Upstairs, Margaery had led Brienne into a room that made her feel decidedly faint. It was a large, airy room with a pleasantly cracking fire across from a bed that looked large enough for her long legs. The room was decorated with soft blues and white lace. The wood finish was still the dark stained mahogany of the outdoor trim, but it leant structure to the frills adorning the room. There was a delicate looking table and chairs settled by the window, cozy throws draped over each chair, and a young girl was shaking out a long blue robe to settle on the bed. Brienne had thought downstairs was the height of luxury, but this room felt like it was made for a Queen.

“Oh… I couldn’ sleep in ‘ere, missus. It’s too good for the likes of me.” Margaery huffed, hiding a small smile from Brienne as she bustled the pair of them into the room.

“Nonsense. It’s the only room that makes sense. Now go on through to the bathroom. Pia and I will be helping you wash up.” Pia, the young housemaid, ducked into a small curtsy, and Brienne followed her in a daze. _She… curtsied… to me?_

“If you please, miss…” Pia held her hand out, looking pointedly at Brienne’s clothes.

Brienne let out an embarrassed, “oh, o’course” and the two women worked to get her threadbare clothes off her frame. Margaery strode through the door with three fluffy towels, and set them on a stool near the steaming bath. Brienne shivered, feeling very exposed in naught but her skin, and she could feel every bit of the dirt she had carried up from Flea Bottom. Pia move to leave with all of Brienne’s clothes and her purse and her unsettled feeling turned into panic.

“What’re you doin’ wiv me clothes?” she demanded. Margaery fixed her with a steely glare. “Brienne, those aren’t fit to make rags out of. They’re going down to the kitchen to be burned.”

“Aoow, no they ain’! Those are mine, you cann’ burn ‘em as iffin they’re nothin’!” She yelped, reaching out to tug on her apron. For such a small girl, Pia was surprisingly strong, and she held gamely onto the stack of clothes.

“Brienne, let _go_ , we’re buying you new clothes!” Margaery strode over to try and pry Brienne’s hands away, but Brienne stubbornly held on, her panic causing her to holler.

“I won’! I won’ let you burn me clothes! Let me _GO_!”

\---

The momentary peace that had settled once more on the library was broken when Brienne’s yelling made its way down the stairs. Both Jaime and Tyrion jumped at the protestations upstairs. Jaime frowned. _This will not do._

He glanced over at Tyrion before exiting the library, mounting the stairs, his irritation growing. He had _just_ monologued about how much he valued peace in his life, and this wench was already throwing that to the Seven Hells in a handbasket. He strode through the door to the guest room, and burst through the door to the bathroom, a chastisement flying from his mouth as the door flew open,

“What the blazes is going on-“ He was interrupted by a screech from all three women. Two of them were flushed from exertion and sweat, respectably dressed in their clean (if slightly rumpled) uniforms. Brienne however… he got a glimpse of her naked frame, looking like as magnificent and dignified as a statue carved from ivory, her arms flexed as she managed to wrench her apron out from Pia’s hands and throw it at him with a shriek.

Jaime staggered out of the bathroom, and Margaery slammed the door shut behind him. The shock of his presence had clearly restored a sense of balance on the other side of the door, and Jaime’s hands only shook slightly as he peeled the apron from his face, smoothing out his waistcoat. Glancing down, he felt his face heat up as he felt a stir beneath his belt. _Oh for the love of the Seven…_ he groaned slightly before letting out a huff of laughter at his current state, putting all his fancy words to shame.

_After all, I am an ordinary man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that made this chapter difficult as hell:  
> 1\. Do justice to my everlasting devotion to one Margaery Tyrell while also bringing her down to the social status of a servant (you'll notice she never calls Jaime "sir", which is one of the ways you know she's the one really in charge of the household)  
> 2\. Make sure Higgins!Jaime isn't so much of an asshole that Brienne just strangles him and walks out to challenge anyone walking on Casterly Street to a fight  
> 3\. "I'm an Ordinary Man" is a 5 MINUTE SOLO. Breaking that song's journey down in actual dialogue was a nightmare.  
> 4\. Once again, Brienne's dialect is a special sort of hell I wished upon myself, thank GOD I didn't let her kill Jaime he can start to give her elocution lessons.  
> The ŋ symbol I use is from the International Phonetic Alphabet, and it basically represents the "ng" sound like in "sing". 
> 
> Next chapter, the lessons begin and Bronn makes a reappearance.  
> (I am actually enjoying the hell out of writing this; I just needed to complain a little to give myself space to remember that)  
> I have so many more notes about this chapter in particular, so feel free to ask me to gush about it in the comments!


	4. With a Little Bit of Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn makes his own luck and meets Jaime Lannister along his merry way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a week into self-isolation here at one of the epicenters of COVID-19! I've been putting off writing this until I was in a better mood, so I'm glad to have it ready to share with you finally. I learned that Pirates of Penzance has been cancelled due to the virus, and that didn't really put me in the right headspace to write any of this... I was being FAR too maudlin, and this work deserves levity.  
> I hope you enjoy!  
> I'm [unadulteratedkr](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come say hi!

The Rusty Dragon wasn’t considered to be a particularly innovative alehouse. The ancient bricks keeping it together sagged on the street closest to the harbor, there wasn’t a single pane of glass clean enough to see through, and the wood frames holding it all together were either coated with algae, vomit, or a sickening paste combining the two. It was a particular favorite of the sailors trudging to and from the ships mooring in the slips, the dockworkers who tried their best not to waste every single one of their coins on the bitter ale, and…

“Gettou’ of ‘ere, you drunk bastar’s, garn and gettou’!”

The blistering holler coming from the Rusty Dragon was followed closely by its master, lugging two men in headlocks out the door. A third man was stumbling away from the proprietor’s legs, which were kicking viciously out at the drunkard.

“Godsdammit, Bronn… Iffin I ‘ave to tell you one more fuckin’ time tha’ drinks are ta be paid for afore you can drink ‘em, I’ll drown you in the Bay” The alehouse owner tossed the two men out onto their asses, freeing up a hand to snatch the tankard away from Bronn’s hand.

Bronn, used to this tradition at the beginning of the evening, simply brushed his trousers off, lending a hand to Chiggen and Osmund, before cheerfully yelling back at the slamming door, “Thankee for the ‘ospitality, Allard… send th’ bill ta th’ Red Keep!”

Bronn never went far without the two mates now brushing muck off one another, and they had spent the past decade conspiring together to avoid an honest day’s work. He had worked hard for nothing on the island of Tarth, and when the opportunity arose to try his luck in the capitol city, he had jumped at the opportunity. Bronn sucked air through his teeth and let out a sigh.

“We’re in the muck naow, good n’ proper, Bronn. We gots ta ge’ back ta workin’, I s’pose” bemoaned Osmund, readjusting his clothes.

Bronn shoved the man back down into the dirt with a laugh. “Workin’! Fuckin’ sevvin ‘ells, don’ you dare mention tha’ word in me presence again, Osmun’” He strode down towards the sluggish waters that gave Mud Gate its name, peering down before spitting into it. He gazed out into the foggy twilight, sneering at the lanterns being lit onboard the ships. “Lookit those poor bastar’s, workin’ away when the Gods habove tellin’ us we need to be sleepin’.” Bronn began wandering towards the Mud Gate, grinning over his shoulder.

“’Ow many times I have t’ tell ya? We tried tha’ workin’ shit once. Didn’ suit us, did it, lads?”

Chiggen sniggered. “ ‘Twas nice exercisin’, f’sure.”

Bronn barked out with laughter as the two men followed him. “I tell ya both… stickin’ wiv the Old Crone ‘as been me savin’ grace. Wivvout ‘er, I’d ‘ave though’ I can’ make me own luck.” Bronn called out to a horse-drawn cart stuffed with miserable faces pulling towards the docks.

“Give the Smith my compl’ments, gents!” One or two of the workers in the cart made rude gestures with their hands, all of them grumbling and grousing at Bronn.

Bronn turned back to the two men trailing along behind them, sweeping out his arm. “Y’see… you follow the Smith, ‘n ‘e makes you work until you can’ heven crack a smile at your fellow man.”

Bronn’s face became pensive as he turned back to wander his way through the streets. He liked having the two men behind him to talk to; his daughter had never been as attentive as his two mates, and he had years of preaching buried in his chest. He glanced up at the Sept of Baelor, his sneer turning into more of a grimace.

“I’m tellin’ ya. There hain’ no God for me but the Crone. The Father looks down on me, n’ for wh’? Givvin’ me a child to raise on me own?” He laughed humorlessly. “Iffin men were made to raise brats like Brienne all on their own, there wouldn’ be a fuckin’ Mother in the Sept.”

Chiggen and Osmund both wisely kept their mouths shut. The two men knew all too well to keep to themselves when Bronn started to go off like this. It typically ended with them either pulling him away from a Gold Cloak or following him into an alehouse where his rough fluency would usually lead to at least another half pint before being thrown out again. _Worth the risk_ , was a thought both usually had about three times a night.

“Not tha’ I’d be haskin’ the Mother for hany ‘elp, tha’ righ’ there is a Goddess designed ta teach other womun ta nag a man ‘til th’ hend ov time.” Bronn peered in the grimy window of another pub along their walk back towards Flea Bottom, but snorted in dissatisfaction before wandering further up the road.

Chiggen looked in and made the same snorting sound. Osmund looked in and couldn’t see a single thing.

“’N don’ heven ge’ me _started_ on th’ Warrior!” Bronn exclaimed. “Settin’ me firmly in the realm of the undeservin’ poor juss ‘cause I don’ sign meself up to die for ‘im wha’ did noffin for me. Nah, tha’ fucker can go straigh’ to ‘is own ‘ell, and I’d say it to ‘is face. I won’ be goin’ out ta die on accoun’ of no God, won’t be goin’ out to workin’ on accoun’ of one neither.”

He paused, wrapping an arm around the shoulders of Chiggen and Osmund, pulling them close. It was starting to feel more and more like they were getting close to one of the good nights where Bronn would manage to find a silver stag somewhere in a forgotten pocket or an unsuspecting hand. They grinned at Bronn both of them chiming in with “Aye, naught bu’ the Crone for us, mate.” “We makin’ our own luck ou’ ‘ere, Bronn, aye!” Bronn pulled them both into a pub, calling out for pints boldy.

It was only after two more establishments had flung them all out into the night air, Bronn conceded his defeat for the night. Brushing off his beer-stained clothes, he headed down the street towards the inner neighborhoods of Flea Bottom, not bothering to look back at his companions; simply assured they would be following behind him.

“Righ’, time to pester tha’ daughter ov mine for a few more ov ‘em pennies, don’ ya think, lads? Tha’ Maiden ov ‘ers migh’ cast me down as a brute and a poor sinner, bu’ iffin I know my Brienne, she’ll ignore ‘er better angels.” Osmund opened his mouth to remind Bronn of their last encounter with his daughter, but Chiggen gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. At least one of them would remember this time not to detract Bronn from his current drunken optimism, and even in their inebriated state… they knew his smile at the mention of his daughter could quickly turn mirthless and vicious.

Arriving outside of Brienne’s flat, Bronn started hollering at the single window belonging to her attic rooms. It was to everyone’s surprise when the head poking out was not blonde and strong, but round and brunette.

“ _Lollys?!_ What th’ hever-livin’ fuck are you doin’ in Brienne’s rooms?” Bronn shouted at his not-wife. She glared down at him, grinning almost maliciously.

“Tha’ terror of a woman you call yer daugh’er sen’ _me_ a message, tellin’ me to take hup residence in there ‘ere rooms. You’re ‘bout ta be payin’ for your own drinks soon, Bronn Tarth, make no mistake!”

Bronn seethed down below. “I’ll hurl you afore the Stranger’s altar iffin you don’ ‘splain yerself, Lollys. Wha’ is goin’ on wiv Brienne?”

Lollys sniggered, turning to call down to poor Chiggen and Osmund who had started to back away from Bronn. “’E don’t know. Can you believe tha’? Don’ heven know ‘bout ‘is own daugh’er.”

Bronn shot a murderous glance towards the two men. They stayed put.

“Wha’ ‘bout Brienne?” He insisted, crossing his arms. Lollys pursed her lips sourly.

“Moved in wiv a swell, Brienne ‘as. Left ‘ere wiv a note sent me way n’ she ‘asn’t been ‘ome for three days” Lollys looked entirely too pleased with herself, and it turned Bronn’s face even more sour.

“…anything else?”

“Sent ‘nother note this mornin’, axin’ me to send ‘er stuff ta...” Lollys paused, pulling a crisp page of stationary out to consult, tapping each word as she read, “27 Casterly Stree’, care ov a Professor Lannister, axin’ for ‘er shell collection, ‘er book ov tales, but none ov ‘er clothes.” Lollys looked down with her eyebrows raised, tutting at Bronn.

Bronn, on the other hand, looked positively gleeful. “Well, well… looks like me deares’, darlinges’ daugh’er ain’ gonna be prayin’ to no fuckin’ Maiden anymore!” He snickered, clapping both Chiggen and Osmund on the back. “I knew she ‘ad a career in fron’ of ‘er. See, thissin righ’ ‘ere, this is why I been prayin’ to the Crone all these years. Iffin I’d be prayin’ to the Father, ‘e woul’ be ‘spectin’ me to ‘elp support me child… but wiv the luck ov th’ Crone, she’s goin’ ta be supportin’ me.”

Both men smiled uncertainly at Bronn but were frogmarched down the street as Bronn continued to crow with delight, “We’re in for a good ol’ booze-up, chaps! 27 Casterly Stree’, ‘ere I come!”

\---

Jaime Lannister was not losing his temper. He definitely was not about to yell about vowels for the third time in as many days. It wasn’t as if Brienne wasn’t trying. It wasn’t as if adapting the musculature of your throat and rearranging how every single sound you ever grew up hearing was supposed to sound in your head was _easy_. And if he was going to remember that and not yell at Brienne and make her accent even _worse_ , he was going to continue to stay holed up in his library.

Tyrion was finishing his breakfast as quietly as he could and looking over the notes each man had taken yesterday after dinner, Pia and Peckledon were both making themselves scarce, and Margaery had just entered from the hallway, carrying kindling to the fire of his uneven temper. That is, she was carrying the mail.

“For the love of the Warrior, Ms. Tyrell… just pay the damn bills and say no to the invitations.” Jaime knew he was baiting her by swearing, and he could see her purse her lips into a thin, disapproving line.

Margaery was _not_ impressed with her employer’s attitude over the past few days. When he wasn’t shouting at Brienne (who apparently had wormed her way into the hearts of his three employees faster than he had placed her damned accent), he was prowling restlessly around the halls, interfering with her ability to run his house efficiently, and she was clearly was close to poisoning him by “accident.”

“Are you really insisting on working the girl this way for the next six months? Making her say her alphabet over and over, from sunup to sundown, even when she eats! You will work her to death. When will it stop?” Margaery demanded, glaring at the letters in her hand as she sorted through them, tossing the invitations in the crackling fire.

“When she does it properly, of course. Is that all, Ms. Tyrell?” Jaime kept his tone even, but Margaery had been working for him long enough to know exactly how close they were to a recreation of the Port Incident, and she took the hint to drop the subject with a rather unladylike snort that made Tyrion’s eyes dance, and Jaime glower.

“There is another letter from that Pentoshi millionaire Rego Draz. He still wants you for his Moral Reform League.”

“Throw it away!” Jaime retorted, thoroughly annoyed now at his housekeeper’s determination to draw out his temper.

Margaery stood her ground, however. “It’s the third letter he’s written to you in as many weeks, professor. You should answer it.”

Jaime ground his teeth together and could hear his jaw clicking from tension. “Fine. Leave it on the desk, Ms. Tyrell. I’ll _try_ and get to it.” He would not make this viper of a housekeeper see him make any definitive promises this morning. He could see her hands itching to toss the letter right at him, _She’s already learning bad habits from the wench_ , but she instead put it primly on his desk, straightening it to ensure it was perfectly situated in the middle of his desk. She gave him an equally polite nod and exited with the precise amount of pressure needed on the door for the books to rattle.

Tyrion had enough time to look up at Jaime with a grimace, and say, “That went well” before Peckledon walked in through the door, adjusting his gloves hesitantly.

“Yes, Peckledon?”

“If you please, sir, there’s a man here. He says his name is Bronn S. Tarth, and that you have his daughter here.”

Tyrion shot Jaime a look of distress, and Jaime arched his brow in response. “Very well, Peckledon. Send the blackguard up.”

Tyrion was tidying away the remainder of their breakfast, and shot his brother a dark look. “He very well might not be a blackguard, Jaime.”

Jaime laughed, his eyes sharp. “Nonsense, Tyrion! Of course he’s a blackguard.”

Tyrion glanced at the open doorway, his eyes trailing towards the door leading to Brienne’s practice room. He continued to fidget nervously. “You’re not worried we’ll have some trouble with him?”

Jaime rose from his desk to lean against it, his languid posture doing nothing to hide the steel in his eyes. “No, I think not. Any trouble to be had, he’ll have it with me. Not I with him.”

Peckledon walked back through the doors, looking rather distressed at the man being led in. He simply gave Jaime and Tyrion both short bows before gesturing to Bronn. “Mr. Tarth, sir.”

There was no other word for it, Bronn _swanned_ into the library with a solemn look as he took in both gentlemen before him.

“Professor Lannister?”

Jaime arched his brow at his brother, before standing up from his desk. “We’re both of us Professor Lannister, whom is it you wish to speak to?” Tyrion pursed his lips in an effort to look somber, but he and Jaime both knew it was to keep him from laughing at Jaime’s sudden transformation into a strict, posh gentleman. _Gods, I sound like my father._

Bronn peered suspiciously at both of them. “Naow, I don’ ‘ave hany clue which ov you I’ve got business wiv, bu’ I come ‘ere on a very serious matter, Gov’nuh. Very serious.”

Jaime crossed his arms, examining the man in front of him. “Brought up on Tarth, yes… mother was Myrish, I should think. What is it you want, sir?”

Bronn sniffed importantly, brushing one of the unoccupied chairs roughly with his hat before sitting down. “I wan’ me daugh’er, tha’s wha’ I wan’. Ya see?” He propped his feet up on the small table in front of him, and Tyrion cringed.

Jaime, however, grinned humorlessly. “Of course you do!” he proclaimed, walking over to reopen the door. “You’re her father, after all. I’m glad to see you have a spark of family feeling left in you.” Opening the door he gestured towards Brienne’s study. “She’s in there. Take her away at once! Good day.”

Bronn’s feet slipped off the small table and his mouth gaped open. “Wha?”

Jaime tucked his hands in his pockets, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. “Take her away! Did you really think I would keep your daughter for you?”

Bronn glanced over at Tyrion, who was mirroring Jaime’s look of innocent satisfaction so closely they might have been twins. Bronn frowned in disapproval. “N-naow, is this reasonable, guv’nuh? Is it… is it fairity ta take advantage of a mun like tha’? Th’ girl belongs ta me… “ His eyebrows wagged maliciously “’n you fuckin' got ‘er. Where do I come in?”

Jaime straightened to his full height and stalked towards Bronn. “How _dare_ you! How dare you come in here and try to blackmail me!” He exclaimed, false venom in his voice. He shot Tyrion a sharp glance of _I told you so_ before pointing an accusatory finger towards Brienne’s father. “You sent her here on purpose!”

Bronn grimaced, his face a picture of innocence, which only confirmed Jaime’s first suspicion this man was a crook of the highest caliber. “Naow… don’ tike a man up like tha’, guv’nuh!”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, and Tyrion joined in, looking up at Bronn severely, “The police shall take you up. This is a plan… a plot to extort money from my brother by threats. Jaime, telephone the police!”

Bronn stood up in righteous indignation. Jaime was astonished at how false it looked on him versus the way it suited his daughter like a second skin. “’Ave I axed you for a bronze penny? I leave it ta both ov ya, ‘ave I said a word about money?”

“Well, what else did you come for?” Jaime responded, his feral smile dancing in his eyes.

“Wha’ woul’ a bloke come for? Be ‘umun, guv’nuh. I ax you, be ‘umun.” Bronn put a hand to his heart. Jaime held back a snort.

“Bronn, you sent her here on purpose.” He accused him, crossing his arms.

Bronn walked over to Jaime, mimicking his crossed arms. “Crone ‘elp me, I never did, guv’nuh. I swear it on me fuckin' life, I do.”

“Then how did you know she was here?” interjected Tyrion. Bronn’s responding grin was probably meant to look sincere, but only had the effect of reminding Jaime of a nasty shark in the King’s menagerie.

“I’d tell ya, guv’nuhs, if you’d le’ a poor man get a word in! I’m willin’ to tell ya. I’m wantin’ to tell ya. I’m waitin’ to tell ya!”

Jaime cleared his throat to hold back a laugh and looked at his brother in amusement. “You know, Tyrion… this chap’s got a certain natural gift of rhetoric. Did you observe the rhythm of his native woodnotes wild? ‘I’m willing to tell you, I’m wanting to tell you, I’m waiting to tell you’… that would be his mother’s Myrish strain influencing him, no doubt.” He dropped the amusement and went back to accusation, turning back to Bronn. “How did you know Brienne was here if you didn’t send her, then?”

“Well naow, she sen’ for ‘er luggage, n’ I got an earful ov shit 'bout it… ‘specially ‘ow she said she didn’ wan’ no clothes.” He leaned in with a knowing look. “No clothes, eh?” Jaime grimaced at the suggestive look, and Bronn continued on, “Wha’ was I ta think from tha’, guv’nuh? I ax you, as a parent, wha’ was I ta think?”

Jaime nodded back at Bronn. “I see. So you came here to rescue her from a fate worse than death, yes?”

Bronn nodded once, solemn as the grave. “Yes, guv’nuh. That’s righ’.”

Jaime and Tyrion continued to nod. “Ah, yes. Of course. _Ms. Tyrell!_ ” Jaime hollered suddenly. It startled Bronn into silence until Margaery strode into the library, her brow furrowed at Jaime’s yelling.

“Yes, professor?”

“Brienne’s father has come to take her away. Would you see them both out?” Margaery’s eyes went livid, and she held her hands together, flexing them in irritation. Bronn cleared his throat urgently, planting himself between Jaime and Margaery.

“Naow, wai’ juss a minute, guv’nuh! Wai’ juss a minute!” Bronn grinned again, this time trying desperately to be charming. “You n’ me is men ov the world, ain’ we?”

Jaime glanced over at Margaery, who now looked as if she was ready to pick up the bottle of brandy on the bar cart and brain every man in the library.

“Men of the world, are we? I see. Perhaps you’d best go and check on Brienne, Ms. Tyrell.”

Margaery fixed him with a glare, _I swear that wench has drugged my entire staff in this last three days,_ and gave him a precise nod, just shy of a curtsy. “Indeed, professor.”

She shut the door firmly behind her, and Jaime looked to Bronn expectantly. Bronn cleared his throat once more, inhaling deeply. “Naow, see ‘ere, guv’nuh. I’ve took a sor’ ov a fancy to you n’ if you wan’ the girl, I ain’ so set on ‘avin’ ‘er ‘ome again tha’ I’m closed to any sor’ ov an… arrangement.” Bronn’s conspiring smile was back and he shrugged his shoulders innocently. “All I ax is me righ’ as a father. Surely you gentlemun are the last ones livin’ to ‘spect me to let ‘er go for nothin’. I can see both ov ya are straigh’ sorts, guv’nuhs. So… what’s five golden draggins to ya? Bronn shrugged again. “’N what’s Brienne ta me?”

Tyrion frowned at Bronn. No doubt he was thinking, as Jaime was, about Brienne’s vehement denial of having any family, and here was the stark proof in front of them. Tyrion spoke up, a hint of disgust in his voice. “I feel you should know, Mr. Tarth, that my brother’s intentions are entirely honorable.”

Bronn looked offended. “Ov course they are, guv’nuh! If I thought they wasn’, I’d be axin’ for fifty.”

Jaime felt bile rising in his throat and he scornfully replied, “You mean to say you would sell your daughter for fifty pounds? Have you _no_ morals?”

It was Bronn’s turn to look scornful. “I ain’ ashamed to say I don’, guv’nuh. I can’ afford them. Neither coul’ you iffin you was as poor as me.” He shrugged, leaning up against Jaime’s desk. “I don’ mean any ‘arm… but iffin Brienne is gonna ‘ave a bit outta this, why not me too?” Bronn was starting to feel philosophical at this point, and he picked at his teeth as he continued. “Look at it my way. Wha’ am I? I ax ya, wha’ am I? I’m one ov th’ underservin’ poor, that’s wha’ I am. Think wha’ tha’ means to a man. I don’ ‘ave any morals, bu’ those who ‘ave money ‘ave ‘em, n’ they tell me I can’ be deservin’ of they’re elp. Iffin there’s anythin’ goin’ round, and a man such as meself be axin’ for any of it, it’s always the same story: You’re undeservin’, so you can’ ‘ave it.”

Bronn flicked whatever he had dug out of his teeth towards the ground, but that didn’t break the look of fascination Jaime had fixed Bronn with. _Horrid man, I must say, but good gods, what a philosophy._

“My needs is as grea’ as the most deservin’ widows tha’ hever got money outta six differen’ charities in one week for the death ov th’ same damn ‘usband. I don’t need less than a deservin’ man, guv’nuhs. I eat the same as a deservin’ man, and I drink” Bronn grinned, completely unashamed. “Well, a lot more.” He turned to Jaime, and while Bronn still was faking slightly towards innocence, there was an edge of truth to his words that hadn’t been there before. “I’m playin’ straigh’ wiv ya. I ain’ pretendin’ to be deservin’. Nah, I’m an undeservin’ bastar' through n’ through, n’ I mean to go on bein’ undeservin’. I like it, n’ that’s th’ truth.”

The con-artist in Bronn seemed to be lying dormant no longer because he turned sorrowful. “Will you tike ‘dvantage of a man’s nature, do ‘im out ov th’ price ov ‘is own daugh’er? I brough’ tha’ girl up all on me own, fed n’ clothed ‘er by the sweat of me brow, n’ now I see she’s growed big ‘nough to be interestin’ to you two gentlemun. N’ all I ask, is five draggins unreasonable?”

Jaime glanced over at Tyrion and shook his head in wonder. “You know, Tyrion… if we took this man in hand as well, he could take his pick between a position on the Small Council and spreading the Faith in Myr.” Jaime shook his head again, sighing slightly. _No wonder the wench is so godsdamn stubborn with a father like this._ “Well, then. We’d better give him the dragons.”

Tyrion huffed slightly, looking Bronn over in resignation. “He’ll make bad use of it, Jaime.”

Bronn chuckled slightly at Tyrion’s morose verdict. “Not me, guv’nuh. Swear on the Crone, I won’. Juss one good spree for meself n’ the missus, givin’ pleasure to us n’ employment ta others.” Jaime strode over to his desk, pulling open a drawer to pull out five gold dragons. He held them out to Bronn, who grinned as they clinked into his hand. “You couldn’ spend it better, I swear.”

As Bronn bit down on one of the coins to test its veracity, Jaime felt a sense of puckish glee. “This is simply irresistible. I should give him ten.”

“Aow, nah! Nah, guv’nuh, the missus wouldn’ ‘ave the ‘eart ta spend ten. Ten draggins is a lot of money. Makes a man feel as iffin ‘e got to buy ‘imself some morals… n’ goodbye ta ‘appiness. Nah, you juss give me wha’ I ax, not a penny more.” Bronn grinned at the look of surprise on the faces of both Lannister brothers.

Tyrion rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I feel as if the Mother will strike us all down for allowing this sort of immorality. Are you sure you couldn’t marry that missus of yours to take the edge off for us poor mortals? After all, marriage surely isn’t so frightening. You married Brienne’s mother.”

Bronn gaped in disbelief. “Who th' fuck tol’ you tha’, guv’nuh?” Jaime choked down a laugh at Tyrion’s look of surprise.

“Well, no one… I just assumed…” Tyrion trailed off as Bronn shook his head with an exaggerated frown, and Jaime did his best not to bend in half with his contained laughter.

“If we listen to this man for another minute, we’ll have no convictions left. You have your five dragons, I believe?” Jaime walked towards the door to the library, opening it for Bronn.

“Aye, tha’ I do, guv’nuh. Thank you.” Bronn strode past him into the hall, Jaime and Tyrion following him.

“You’re quite sure you won’t take ten?” Jaime grinned at his brother, who once again rolled his eyes to the heavens.

“Nah, thank you. Maybe ‘nother time.” Bronn was striding towards the front door when the door to Brienne’s practice room burst open, and the woman they had all been talking about came flying out. “I beg your pardon, miss!” Bronn exclaimed, tugging on his forelock.

“I won’ say them ruddy vowels one more time” declared Brienne, glaring at Jaime, ignoring her father. Margaery had dressed her today in a plush velvet blue skirt and crisp white shirtwaist, adorned with a tie. She looked nothing like the forlorn flower-seller Jaime had originally bargained with, despite sounding more like one than ever.

“Crone’s teeth!” Bronn swore, “Brienne! I never though’ you’d clean up so good-lookin’. She does me credit, don’t she?” He smiled up at her, and Brienne scowled.

“Wha’ are you doin’ ‘ere?”

Bronn grimaced at her with no warmth in his eyes, and Jaime once again felt a twinge of regret, seeing their relationship playing out.

“Naow, that’s ‘nough of tha’, Brienne. You ‘old your damned tongue, n’ don’t you give these gentlemun none ov your lip.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jaime, grinning with that same lack of warmth. “Iffin you ‘ave any trouble wiv ‘er, give ‘er a few licks of th’ strap. That’s th’ way to improve ‘er temper.” Brienne swatted out at her father, who dodged it deftly before bowing slightly to the two men standing in the entryway to the library. “Gods save ya, gentlemun. Cheerio, Brienne!” and with that, Bronn was gone.

Brienne was too startled by her father’s sudden appearance and disappearance to say anything, and Jaime looked at the front door in wonder at the man he had just met. “That man is a philosophical genius of the first water. I’m going to write to Rego Draz and tell him if he wants a lecturer, I’ve found him one.” Jaime glanced back at his brother with a savage grin. “ Mr. Bronn S. Tarth, one of the most original moralists in all of Westeros!”

Behind him, Tyrion snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of the Crone is mixed in a little with Tamora Pierce's Graveyard Hag… I've enjoyed the idea of the Crone being Bronn's god of choice, but I needed her to be a little bit more... mischievous, I suppose, for it to make sense for him. Like, Bronn doesn't give two shits if the deity he prays to is a God or a Goddess, he just needs a crafty one. So she's a little less "bland, boring fount of wisdom" and a little bit more "crazy old lady who could kill you or beat you at cards or create the best flan recipe in ten minutes and that's why she's so wise"
> 
> I apologize to any and all Chiggen and Osmund stans out there, they are being used purely as an audience to and enablers of Bronn's bad behavior in this chapter.
> 
> There is definitely a one shot in my future called the Port Incident where Jaime and Margaery of this verse meet for the first time. I get great joy out of knowing I will never have Jaime actually SAY that Margaery is a thorn in his side because that joke is too obvious even for me, but I like writing their relationship to be as... thorny as possible.
> 
> I adore how amazingly Peck's full last name works as the name for a stuffy butler. 
> 
> Next chapter... we see just how closely Brienne can get to wanting to kill one Jaime Lannister.


	5. Just You Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne does her utmost to not murder Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out; I PROMISE this story isn't abandoned! I've been feeling the COVID-19 blues like most everyone, and I let it turn into a mulish desire to not write anything happy. So I busted out a canon-compliant oneshot to make me and others cry to hopefully get my maudlin self under control.  
> The good news is, I've written bits and pieces of the next two chapters in little bursts over the past few weeks, so ideally it won't be another 3 weeks before the next chapter's ready. Thank you to everyone who's sticking with me!  
> I'm [unadulteratedkr](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!

“Ayyyyyyeeeeeee, eeeeeeee, Oiiiiii, Aooowwwww, Youuuuu” Brienne’s voice was cracking as she continued to repeat the sounds, those awful sounds, the _wrong_ sounds into the machine currently recording her voice. She was so bone tired, so achy she could feel her feet tingling with it. She slumped in her chair, taking a deep breath. Jaime hadn’t yet been in to see her today; he had directed Margaery to set her up in her little study, and there was little mystery as to what her task was to be. It hadn’t changed much, in fact it hadn't changed in the slightest since her stay at 27 Casterly Street had begun.

Brienne’s first few days had each been their own hellish whirlwinds. After Jaime had burst in on the three of them, Brienne had gone limp with shock. Margaery and Pia had finally wrestled the clothes from her with no resistance, led her to the tub, and firmly coaxed her into the water. She hadn’t even had a chance to enjoy the feeling of the hot water sluicing over her shoulders as Pia poured it with an unceremonious efficiency. The young housemaid had taken up a rag, and Margaery wielded a rough brush to banish ten years of grime from her body.

“Don’ s'pose you’ll be tellin' me your names, then?” Brienne had grumbled, looking completely waterlogged as the housemaid started to attack her hair with soap and the rag. More water poured over her head, banishing away the suds. Brienne pushed the long blonde strands back, noting with surprise and no little amount of horror at how her hair finally resembled fresh rather than soiled straw.

Ms. Tyrell shot her a sharp glance, her lips pursed at Brienne’s obstinate tone. “I’m Margaery Tyrell. I’m Professor Lannister’s housekeeper, but I’m sure I’ll be turning into your minder if I know the professor at all. This is Pia.”

Pia, her cap still askew from their recent confrontation, bobbed her head in a small curtsy. Brienne gaped at her polite and sweet nature. It made her flush with shame.

“I… I ‘poligize, for th’ yellin’.” She mumbled, not able to meet either woman’s eyes. Margaery softened.

“Brienne, this household is used to the Professor’s… unusual life. I won’t speak for Pia, but I pride myself in being able to support his work when he actually finds the ability to focus on it. You are not the first person, not even the first woman to yell at us in this house.” Her lovely face became stern. “But you cannot expect us to support you if you treat us as less than what we are. Surely that’s why you came here? To escape the confines of a world that expects you to be dragged through the mud with a smile and a curtsy?”

Brienne sniffed, her face wet enough to disguise any tears. Margaery’s tender scolding was unlike her father’s berating. It was just one more unbelievable facet of this brand new world she had thrown herself at. “’Twas unladylike ov me, n’ I won’ yell again.”

Pia smiled, her demeanor soft and kind. If Brienne hadn’t already been wiping away tears, Pia’s voice would have made her weep with its gentleness. “You can still yell, miss. Just so long as you’re yelling at the Professor.”

Margaery bit back a smile, and looked at Brienne, finally managing to make contact with her eyes. Large, swimming blue ones met with calm brown ones. “You’re a strong woman, Brienne, and I don’t just say that because it took the better part of my body weight to get you into this room in the first place.”Margaery sighed, considering Brienne carefully. "I cannot speak for anyone else, but this household needs someone like you to force Professor Lannister into living up to his declarations of genius." Margaery abandoned the brush, holding Brienne’s hand tenderly. “He's a wildcat dressed up as a gentleman, and you'll have to fight him for every inch of instruction he gives you. So. Fight him. You fight him to hell and back and learn how to talk like a Lady, and do not let him run away or give up on you. I’m sure you’ll do magnificently.” Her features sharpened, and she pulled Brienne’s hand back to her brush. “Now. Let’s get this dirt out from under your fingernails.”

The kindness both women showed Brienne unsettled her to the point of distraction. She didn’t have time to be self-conscious about her size as Pia zipped around her with a length of tape to measure her. Margaery examined her critically, noting the numbers Pia called out and muttering under her breath. Once every inch of her had been measured, from the tips of her fingers to the length of her instep, Brienne was wrapped up in the sapphire blue robe, and tucked into a chair by the window. Brienne was startled to notice the sun starting to sink in the horizon; she had been at 27 Casterly Street for almost the entire day. Margaery continued to mutter to herself, peering at Brienne in her borrowed robe before exiting with a slight nod.

“Nothing Ms. Tyrell or I own is going to fit you, begging your pardon, miss.” Pia had said as she braided Brienne’s hair back to dry. “We were able to find this robe among the Professor’s things, but we can’t send you back down to the two gentlemen in trousers! So we’ll keep you safe up here until Ms. Tyrell’s done browbeating the tailor into fixing you up with the proper clothes.” Pia’s hands were as gentle as her voice was, and Brienne felt soothed into safety.

“Thank you. I am awful sorry ‘bout my be’avior herlier. I’m… I’m frigh’ened of makin’ a total fool of meself, n’ I though’ ‘twas already ‘appenin’ wiv you takin’ me clothes.” Brienne fretted with the tie of the robe as she apologized.

Pia patted Brienne on the shoulder as she stepped away to putter around the room, straightening and tidying as she spoke, “It’s all forgotten. Just yell as much as you like at the Professor; like Ms. Tyrell said: he sorely needs it.” She winked at Brienne with a laugh. “You won’t find any of us stopping you, miss.”

“I threw me violets at ‘im las’ nigh’ when ‘e called me a liar… Iffin I were a bettin’ woman, I’d lay fair odds on me yellin’ at ‘im again.” Brienne grinned back at Pia sheepishly.

Pia let out a delighted laugh, covering her mouth to keep it from bubbling out into the hall. “Seven Bless, I would give up my wages for a month to have seen that! Oh, you’ll do nicely indeed, Miss Tarth.” Pia stopped fussing with an invisible snag on the towel she had just folded, and considered Brienne, the look in her eye sharp like Margaery’s had been. “Do you know, I think we might even be able to help you?” Brienne frowned, bemused. “Not with the yelling, mind you… I’m fairly certain you’ve got that fully under control. There’s just more to turning you into a graceful lady than making you sound like one.”

Pia flushed slightly as Brienne continued to look puzzled. “I’m quite good at the dances you’d be expected to show off when you visit the Red Keep. And Ms. Tyrell knows just about every possible nuance there is when it comes to addressing those in the court, miss.” Brienne was startled by the offer, and she bit down on her bottom lip to contain her gut reaction to scoff at the offer.

“I’d be migh’y glad for an ‘elpin’ ‘and.” She responded shyly.

Pia’s eyes brightened as she finished her reflexive tidying. “Excellent! You know, I might even be able to convince Jos- ah, Peckledon to help you. He was the Professor’s first student; he might be able to translate some of the Professor’s more esoteric exercises for you. I’m going to nip downstairs and persuade Cook to get you settled in for the night with supper, Miss Tarth. Would you like anything else before I do?”

Brienne’s eyes were bright, shining with a tightly contained joy. “Strawberries?”

* * *

The next morning, the strawberries felt like a distant memory as Margaery bustled into Brienne’s room and dawn peeked through her curtains. Brienne shot up in the bed, startled by how heavily she had slept. Margaery was fussing with a bundle of packages. She glanced over at Brienne as she pulled a sharp pair of scissors from her apron pocket to cut the string around the bundles.

“Wonderful, you’re awake. While the Professor does normally keep later hours when he has visitors, I expect you to be up with the household so Pia and I may begin teaching you what he won’t. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

Brienne stifled a yawn, nodding meekly at the brisk and cheerful housekeeper.

“Excellent. There’s hot water in there," Margaery jabbed a finger at the lavatory, "Go wash up and I’ll have something picked out for you to wear." Brienne was still wrapped in the lovely blue robe, and she tucked it tightly around her waist as she obeyed her marching orders.

Margaery and Pia were both in the room when Brienne emerged, ready to help her dress in her new finery. Brienne flushed at the luxurious items in front of her. She was feeling that dreaded unsettled feeling in her stomach as she hesitantly accepted the undergarments. She ran her long fingers down each piece, and she sighed softly as she took in the quality garments before her. They were made of soft linen and silk, delicately latticed with ribbons woven into the fabric. It wasn’t ostentatious; there weren’t flourishes of lace or big floppy bows, and Brienne was overcome by that deft level of detail. It made the clothing feel more _hers_ than the most exquisite embellishments ever could. The outfit picked out for her was an equally deft level of simple sophistication. The blouse she wore was not flounced with ruffles or puffs. It had a high collar free of lace to prevent any itchiness, and the sleeves only had a hint of embroidery at their ends, gathering just below her elbow. The skirt was pleated, a simple band of ribbon at the bottom. _Tha’ muss be the firs’ time a skirt ‘as hever fit me godsdamn legs_ , Brienne mused as she straightened the skirts. A lovingly stitched blue vest with a military’s precision in its adornment of gauzy lace completed her outfit. It seemed made for her, it _was_ made for her, Brienne realized with a startled glance at herself in the mirror. Margaery had given her a delicate set of armor for her first day of battle with Jaime Lannister, and it made Brienne’s head swim.

Margaery sat Brienne down at a small table, laid out for breakfast. “You’ll be seated by the kingdom’s highest echelon of snobs at the Unification Feast, and if you pick up the wrong fork, it won’t matter if the Professor teaches you to speak High Valyrian like a native… those vipers will know immediately that you’re a fraud. So. We begin.” As Pia ducked out of the room to prepare for the rest of the house awakening, Margaery drilled Brienne on the cutlery in front of her. Margaery was a relentless drillmaster, but she made sure to explain every single mistake Brienne made with a kind and firm expression. By the time Pia returned, Brienne’s hand was beginning to cramp, her back was stiff with tension, and she had managed to sip her tea only once without correction.

“It sounds like they’re starting to stir, Ms. Tyrell… I can finish up with Brienne while you make sure those two don’t bother us for a few more minutes.” Pia shot Brienne a small grin. Brienne took advantage of Margaery's distraction to take an impolite gulp of her tea, fortifying herself for the day ahead.

Margaery sighed, shaking out her skirt as she stood. “Into battle I go. Brienne, no matter what happens today, don’t forget: he wouldn’t have said yes if he didn’t think you can do anything you put your mind to. Don’t you forget it for one moment, for I expect he might.”

“I don’ intend for ‘im to chase me away from me lessons, Ms. Tyrell. I’m plannin’ on bein’ ‘ere ‘til I can talk proper, I swear on th’ Sevvin.” Despite the slight pull of tension around her mouth and the bridge of her nose, Brienne’s eyes were calm as she reassured Margaery.

“Good. I expect he’ll start the day by yelling for me and then you; don’t let him scare you.”

Brienne snorted. “’E can try.”

And try, Jaime Lannister did.

* * *

“Wench, I’m not teaching you anything more until you can say these blasted letters correctly; I swear by the _Seven_ you are trying to make me lose my mind!” Jaime had growled at her that first morning when Brienne had dared suggest trying a different exercise. She had been saying her vowels and nothing but her vowels for 3 _godsdamn_ hours, and she was ready to throttle her teacher and risk the consequences.

“Iffin you lose your mind, it only shows you’ve got nothin’ much rattlin’ around in tha’ big ‘ead ov yours to begin with, n’ my name is _Brienne._ ” she snapped. Jaime’s eyes flashed, and Brienne swallowed as that dangerous laugh of his peeked out behind his lashes.

“ _Vowels._ ” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble hidden by a lethal smile. “ _Now._ ” Brienne glowered at Jaime, sticking her tongue out at him before clamping her mouth shut. She saw Jaime swallow, his eyes burning bright. Whether it was laughter or outrage flaming in his eyes, she couldn’t be sure.

They had started the day in the library, and outside of the first ten minutes, it had been an agonizing first lesson. Brienne was furious with herself. She could hear the difference between what she was saying and how it was supposed to sound, and nothing seemed to have changed over the past three hours. Jaime was giving her no indication of his opinion, minus his sniping and growling, and Tyrion had opted out of delivering any feedback at all after Jaime had told him in no uncertain terms he wouldn’t have his little brother interfering with his work. Tyrion knew which battles to pick with his brother; Brienne was another story all together.

The library fell into an excruciating silence. The large clock in the hallway was the only sound any of the three occupants of the library heard.

A minute ticked by.

And another.

Brienne could feel a wisp of her hair tickling her ear, but she sat frozen as yet another minute ticked and tocked out of existence.

And another minute.

The clock in the hallway began to chime the hour, and as its bells rang out Jaime finally exploded, “Godsdammit, wench!” Before either one of the pair could begin their sniping at one another again, Tyrion took advantage of the blessed break of silence, rushing over to his brother.

“Jaime, perhaps we should leave Miss Tarth to practice on her own? I’m damned famished, and could use a break from vowels myself.” Brienne waited until Jaime’s green eyes weren’t focused on her, and she shot Tyrion a thankful look of relief. He indicated his head in a minute nod.

Jaime let out an irate huff, but nodded at his brother. “Very well. _You,_ ” He jabbed a finger towards Brienne with a scowl. “Come along.” He strode out of the library, and Brienne grumpily stood up.

“He’s a miserable bastard, Miss Tarth… but you are doing well, I promise.” Tyrion shot her a wry grin.

Brienne sighed, stalking over to the door resolutely. “I woul’ strangle ‘im in a second iffin I didn’ want this so badly, cap’n.” She smoothed her skirt and tugged her vest into place before striding determinedly out to do battle once more with the elder Lannister brother.

Brienne had followed Jaime into a small room next to the library. Jaime was tinkering with a similar recording apparatus to the one in his library, and Brienne took a moment to appraise her teacher from the doorway. Her fury with herself at her lack of progress was compounded with an ever-growing realization that, despite Jaime’s irascible behavior making her teeth grind together, she could still feel her face drain of color when she saw his ridiculous face. _It ain’ fair… ‘im bein’ alike to one of the gods with tha’ damned face._ Brienne sighed in resignation and waited for him to deign her presence worthy of his attention.

Jaime spoke without looking up at her, “To prevent me from throwing a book directly into the fireplace, I think the rest of today will have to be spent separately. I’ll come and check your progress at the end of the day, but you _will_ continue to say your vowels until _I_ decide it’s time to move on.” He stood back up, arching his brow. “Does this sound reasonable to you, wen-” he stopped himself with a small grimace. “Brienne?”

“Soun’s reasonable ‘nough, aye.” Brienne took the offering of her real name for the best apology Jaime could make. If he wasn’t yelling, she reasoned it was best not to antagonize him further. Jaime nodded sharply, exiting the small study quickly. Brienne sighed, plopping down into her chair before resigning herself to more vowels.

Margaery had poked her head in to ensure she was alive throughout the day, and Pia had been full of encouraging smiles when she stopped by with her midday meal and supper, wincing as Brienne tiredly continued to recite the same five sounds over and over and over again. Margaery had finally collected her as the clock in the hall announced she had been working for the past 10 hours with barely a break, and Brienne couldn't remember a single moment of Pia’s ministrations before collapsing onto her bed to succumb to her exhaustion.

* * *

Pia had been the one to wake her on the second morning. After being buttoned into a slate gray shirtwaist and skirt (Brienne had been entranced by the stitching in blue that Margaery had favored for her wardrobe selections, it seemed to make the suit-dress gleam, making the gray an elegant choice rather than a dull one), Pia had proven to be an even more severe taskmaster than the stern housekeeper. Brienne had timidly suggested that she was just born to be lacking grace in her movements, and Pia had let out a decidedly unladylike snort.

“That’s utter tosh, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss.” Pia considered Brienne with a steely glint in her usually gentle eyes. “You’re ashamed of your height, and that’s made you slump your shoulders forward so much, your center of balance is all topsy-turvy. Just look.” Pia dragged a step-stool over to Brienne, climbing up on it to be at an even height as both women looked at Brienne in the mirror. Pia tilted her head as she saw Brienne’s shoulders hunching forward even more, and she frowned.

“That’s enough slouching.” Pia poked her in her shoulders, and Brienne was so startled by it, her shoulders immediately straightened. "Now, walk to the mirror and back to me." Brienne obeyed, inhaling in surprise as she saw herself in the mirror. She looked stately... elegant. Pia examined her critically as Brienne walked back to join her. "Most women I know would kill the King for how elegantly this suit looks on you when you’ve got your shoulders in place.” Pia looked over at Brienne, and her eyes softened back to their normal gentleness for a moment. “I know it’s hard. You’re literally exposing more of your chest to the world, and it’s ever so vulnerable to do so amongst strangers.” Brienne took in a shuddering breath to calm her nerves, heightened by the truth in Pia’s words.

“Back ‘ome… it usually meant sommun woul’ target me iffin I stood up n’ showed off ‘ow tall I really am,” Brienne admitted.

Pia grimaced with an understanding nod. “I promise I don’t blame you for it. However, you _are_ going to have to fight that instinct. You’re learning to talk like a great Lady, and you must stand like one as well. Any time you feel your shoulders sliding back into your old habits, just imagine the two of us right now, and pretend I’ve got a string attached to your head pulling it up so I can finally see what it's like to see you eye to eye.” Pia and Brienne grinned, and Pia hopped off the step-stool.

“Now! Let’s get you settled into those straight shoulders. We'll have you walk back and forth across the room for a while, and then we'll practice sitting down and getting up. No rest for the wicked, miss!”

Brienne was panting with exertion by the time Margaery tapped on the door to bring her down to the library. The second day was shaping up to proceed much as it had yesterday, with Jaime snapping like a crotchety tabby cat after every vowel Brienne spoke.

“Maybe iffin you weren’ actin’ like such a soddin’ toadstool ‘every time I’m gettin’ it wrong, I’d be doin’ better!” Brienne found herself yelling heatedly at Jaime, jumping up to march right out of the library. “I won’ sit around for you to trea’ me like this, I swear I won’!” She slammed the door to the library, wrenched open the door to the little study flanking it, and made a point to slam that door shut to ensure her disgust with Jaime was communicated to the two men wincing in the library.

Brienne devoted herself to the vowel exercise, striding the length of the small room, forcing her head high and her shoulders back as she repeated her vowels. Pia collected her that evening, finding Brienne nodding off as she leaned on the desk, muttering her vowels repeatedly. Brienne gave Pia an exhausted grimace, but reached her hand up above her head, the grimace fading into a tight , but genuine smile as she pulled herself up by the imaginary string. Pia giggled, and led her back upstairs for Brienne to once more flop into bed, surrendering to sleep.

* * *

So. Day three was upon her, and she had been banished to her tiny study without even speaking to her tormentor. Brienne scowled at the machine tracking her voice as she dutifully repeated her vowels, knowing she still hadn’t gotten them right, wishing she could crack the damned contraption over Jaime’s head. _‘Is stupid, gorgeous, golden ‘ead._ Brienne stopped at the ringing of the bell, and she took the chance to rest her head on the desk, hoping Jaime wasn’t likely to burst in to hassle her with a visitor.

She overheard voices in the hallway, and her Jaime Lannister-focused resentment soon overrode her fatigue. She stood up suddenly, pushing herself away from the desk, and yanked the door open to confront her golden-haired persecutor with his annoyingly striking face. It was not the right mood for her to find her father instead.

Her resentment had built into full-blown wrath by the time he had left, and she whirled on Jaime, who was laughing with his brother.

“Wha’ was _‘e_ doin’ ‘ere?” She demanded, flushed with anger and embarrassment. Even the residents of Flea Bottom were disgusted by Bronn Tarth, and Brienne was humiliated to know he had just spoken to the Lannister brothers.

Jaime’s eyes flicked back to Brienne, and he arched his brow, refusing to answer her. “Say your vowels.” He demanded instead.

Brienne glared at him. “I know me vowels, I knew ‘em before I hever met you.”

Having been devoid of Brienne’s presence that morning, Jaime had once again turned into the predatory lion as opposed to the grouchy tabby of the past two days, and he prowled towards her in a way that made her head light. “If you know them, say them, wench.” He challenged her.

“Aye, ee, oii, aow, you” She repeated, cringing internally as she heard them. They weren’t right; of course they weren’t right.

Jaime, to his credit, did not sigh in disappointment. He clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head in irritation instead. “aey, ee, eye, oh, you.” Brienne clenched her fists when she heard Jaime pronounce them correctly.

“Tha’s wha’ I said,” Brienne’s voice faltered with the blatant lie; she had known the minute she had said them that they hadn’t been the same. “I’ve been sayin’ ‘em for three days, n’ I can’ no more.” She flushed in frustration.

Tyrion glanced between Brienne and Jaime with a restrained sympathy. “I realize this is difficult, Miss Tarth. Do try to understand, this is the foundation we must build on to help you.”

Brienne’s eyes pricked with Tyrion’s calm reassurance, and Jaime snapped at his brother, “There’s no use explaining to her Tyrion. Drilling is what she needs.” Any hint of tears vanished immediately as Brienne stared daggers at Jaime. His own eyes, _tha’ damned wretched pair ov eyes,_ flashed with amusement as he continued to berate his brother. “Leave her alone, or she’ll be turning to you for sympathy.”

Tyrion opened his mouth as if to argue with his older brother, but resigned himself to rolling his eyes up to the heavens in a silent plea instead. “Very well, if you insist. Just… have a little patience with her?”

“Of course.” Jaime replied, and Brienne peered at him suspiciously. Tyrion was in no mood to challenge his brother’s reply, and returned to the library without further argument.

That damned laugh was back in Jaime’s eyes. “Say ‘A’,” he demanded impatiently.

Brienne crossed her arms stubbornly. “You ain’ got no ‘eart, you ain’,” she replied, and it was all she could do not to screech when Jaime started towards her. She recognized that look in his eyes; it was the same look that made her think he was going to eat her the night they met. Brienne swallowed, bracing herself on the stairwell to hold back a shiver as he advanced on her. Jaime veered only slightly towards the stairs, pausing on the top step. He was level with her, and but for the railing in between them, he was close enough to embrace. Brienne clenched her jaw at that realization, shoving the indecent thought down fiercely.

“Brienne,” _Sweet Maiden, me name shouldn’ sound so lovely when ‘e says it,_ Brienne thought desperately. He had her locked in his gaze, and she felt lightheaded. “I promise you, you’ll say your vowels correctly before this day is out, or there will be no luncheon, no supper…” He paused as outrage flooded her face, a wicked smile pricking at his eyes and the corner of his mouth, “and no strawberries.”

He mounted the rest of the stairs, entering the second level of the library before Brienne had fully snapped from the spell he had cast with his close proximity. She inhaled sharply, wanting to shriek at him. _Tha’ insolen’, maddenin’ wretch!_

She let out a frustrated squawk right as Pia emerged from the downstairs kitchen. She winced at the murderous look on Brienne’s face.

“I take it the Professor’s being his usual charming self?”

Brienne let out groan, flexing her hands. “I swear to th’ Warrior, iffin I could, I’d _strangle_ ‘im.” She huffed at Pia’s laugh, and dutifully made her way back to her study. Pia followed behind, immediately going into her routine of neatening any room she was in.

“You can do him one better, miss.” Pia’s eyes twinkled. “Jos- I mean… Mr. Peckledon says he’s willing to help you with the exercises, and we’ll have you ready to shock the Professor as if you’ve brought lightning down upon the house.”

Brienne brightened and she reached out to grasp Pia’s hand in thanks. “Tha’ is one ov th’ nicest things I’ve hever ‘eard.” She grinned at Pia, releasing her hand. “It woul’ serve ‘im righ’ to ge’ struck by lightnin’. I can’ say iffin I’d ‘elp the wretch, Starmlands girl or not.”

Pia smirked as she finished putting the papers on the desk to order. “I say, miss, that’s rather merciless of you!” she teased, in mock outrage.

Brienne cracked a wry smile. “Juss you wait. I’ll be talkin’ all fine n’ proper one of these days, n’ the Kin’ ‘imself will buy me flowers n’ be so impressed wiv ‘em tha’ ‘e promises me anythin’ I ax ‘im for. I won’ ax for gold or a title, I’ll just ax for ‘im to dump Jaime Lannister in the Shimmerin’ Sea.” 

Pia’s merry laugh soothed the last rough edge of Brienne’s nerves. Margaery ensured Jaime’s threat of no food was ignored, and after the Lannister brothers had retired, the three house-servants of 27 Casterly Street all crammed themselves into Brienne’s tiny study. Peck, as he insisted Brienne call him, shook her hand with a bright smile, and the quartet worked in hushed whispers and laughs until the clock in the hallway struck midnight.

As she mounted the stairs to crumple wearily into bed, she murmured under her breath.

“Aey, ee, eye, oh, you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne deserves ALL the nice things, and I really wanted to spend some time letting her enjoy being feminine and taken care of at the top which is why I might've gone a liiiittle overboard with describing her new clothes. It's one of the elements of theatre (other than performing) that I love the most, especially as it's been one of the things I've had the most direct contact with as a performer. I figure if the first part of my username is getting put through its paces with Brienne's dialect, I might as well have fun with the other half. (My reference photos can be found [here](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com/post/616082757273157632/briennes-outfits-for-my-fair-maiden-chapter-5) ) 
> 
> When I originally outlined this, I had no real intentions to make Pia such a featured character, but the minute her and Brienne spoke to one another... it was a lost cause. Apparently these two were just meant to be buddies, and I kinda love it. While I do adore Brienne and Margaery's portrayal as best buds in a lot of stories, something about the way their friendship is playing out here feels much more authentic to their actual dynamic in canon.
> 
> Next chapter: Jaime is frustrated he can't work miracles; Pia, Margaery and Peck conspire to prove him wrong.


	6. Poor Professor Lannister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's elocution lessons continue with varying degrees of success, much to Jaime's distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Hoping you're staying safe and sane. One of my two jobs (I'm a Starbucks barista) is putting me back into the public sphere this next week, so fingers crossed I find time and energy to write. Thank you SO much for continuing to stick with me and this story! Your kudos, views and comments are all deeply appreciated.

_Two weeks later_

Jaime was peering over at Brienne, who wearily stirred her tea as she studied the book Jaime had given her to help encourage better diction. _I’ll say this for her, the wench has manners_ , Jaime thought as he contemplated his obstinate, fierce, dedicated pupil. The past two weeks had been damned stormy as the pair of them continued their struggle to find any sense of balance in their lessons. Brienne had met Jaime's every demand with a stubborn resolve that made it impossible for him to be upset, and that irrationally made him even more irritable. If the damned chit would just refuse to do the work, it would be so much easier to justify the moments when his temper got the best of him. Jaime had to reluctantly admit he was impressed by Brienne’s dedication, despite the agonizing pace of her progress and how stupidly testy it made him when he wasn't willing to admit his admiration. It hadn't escaped Jaime's notice that the light continued to burn brightly in her study each evening as he ascended the stairs to his room. In his weaker moments, he would have even been willing to call his responding feelings t _ender_. Naturally, he responded instead by being as irascible as he possibly could be, much to his brother's chagrin. Despite his best efforts to maintain his reputation in his household as an immutable bastard, however, he was finding it easier and easier to slip into moments of sincerity.

Just the day before, Jaime and Brienne had managed to spend the entire day in the library working together without Jaime blowing up at her and Brienne threatening to toss his slippers into the fireplace. While the tenuous peace was unexpected enough, Jaime had been surprised to discover that not only had Brienne not come close to following through on her threat against his slippers, she had set them both by the hearth so they would be warm when he found them. By the time he had discovered them, Brienne had slipped into her study to buckle down into more of the diction exercises Jaime had thrown her way. The unsteady truce forged last night was holding into the afternoon, on as shaky a foundation as Brienne’s vowels were upon.

Brienne was mouthing the words from the book silently, a crease between her eyebrows as she took a sip from her cup, once again giving Jaime a thrill of delight. _My aunt couldn’t have done that with more grace; we might make a highborn lady of her yet._ Jaime frowned as his thoughts refused to stop the parade of compliments towards his pupil, and glowered down at his own cup of tea. _Yes, the wench has a grasp of manners; it's not nearly enough yet._ He could tell she wasn’t saying the phrases from the book correctly, even if she was trying her best to avoid him noticing with her silent work, and he hid a grin. Brienne _was_ making progress, even if it was as small as her knowing when she wasn’t saying something correctly.

Jaime glanced over at his brother, with an apologetic look in his eyes before he spoke up. Tyrion had been showing the patience of one of the silent sisters over the past two weeks, and Jaime knew he was about to test that patience, in both of his fellow scholars.

“Brienne. ‘How kind of you to let me come.’” Jaime's voice was sharp as he recited one of the phrases from the book. Tyrion tensed next to him. They both knew it wasn’t a stretch to break the current truce playing out between him and Brienne, and there's was enough of an edge in Jaime's voice to slice through it like dragonfire through iron.

She glanced up from her book, wariness in the corner of her eyes. Brienne had heard Jaime's tone too. “’Ow kinda you ta le’ me come.” She said, frowning when she heard herself. Jaime hid his satisfaction behind a glare of disapproval shot her way. Her ear was improving, even if it hadn’t yet translated to her speaking. _She is making progress_ , Jaime had to remind himself, _even if it's at a snail’s pace_. Jaime had read over his notes last night, and over the past two weeks, Brienne had managed to say each of her vowels correctly at least once a day. That wasn’t nothing. Still, he wasn't about to mention any of that to her just yet. He wanted more than a vowel or two throughout a day. Jaime longed for one of these phrases or tongue-twisters to come out perfectly, and he pressed on stubbornly.

“No. No, no, _no._ Listen: how kind of you to let me come. Kind of you, kind of you! Again, wench,” Jaime demanded, hunting for another success to jot down. Two days ago, Jaime had noticed that Brienne’s eyes lit with a different sort of fire than when they were arguing when she realized she had said something correctly, and he longed to see it again this afternoon, longed for it to mirror his own satisfaction when she finally could speak a full sentence as gracefully as she moved from room to room. _Enough of the poetry, you damned fool!_ He swore at himself, letting his glare rest on Brienne.

“’Ow kinda you to le’ me come.” Brienne repeated, wrinkling her nose in concentration. Jaime groaned, his frustration real. Of _course_ the only word she would get right this second time would be the damned preposition. A completely useless word, and Brienne had said it perfectly. He was so annoyed, he refused to point out her tiny victory.

He had been right to shoot the apologetic look to his brother; the truce was well on its way to becoming combative.

“No! Kind of you, don’t you hear the difference? Like cup of tea. Say cup of tea.” Jaime punctuated his demand with a precise sip from his own cup.

“Cuppa tea,” This time both he and Brienne winced. Jaime's responding stubbornness flared as he shook his head again. He craved her success, and he could see her own desire to accomplish the task they both set out to overcome. He was not going to let that desire go unsatisfied.

“Wench, you and I both know that wasn’t right.” He pursed his lips, considering her. _Gods, man. There must be some way to lead her to success_. Over the past few days, a thousand quips had flown between the two of them, each of them biting and vicious. Every so often, Jaime could find the ability to resist that urge to offer actual advice instead. “Say cup.”

“Cup.”

“Now say ‘of’.”

“Of.”

“Now slowly. Let the p sound propel you towards the ‘vuh’ sound.”

Brienne frowned, “Cup of tea.” She looked up at him, hopeful. Jaime arched his brow in response and she bit her lip softly before continuing on, “kind of you.” She grinned and beamed up at him, declaring “’Ow kind of you to le’ me come!”

Jaime huffed, a result of his irrational desire for perfection. “Gods almighty, wench!” Before Brienne could puff herself up to holler at him, _and she's be rightly justified to do so, you're behaving like an absolute beast, Lannister_ , Tyrion interrupted, hastily trying to preserve the peace for a little longer.

“This tea was rather spectacular, don’t you think? I am determined to persuade your Ms. Tyrell for that strawberry tart recipe.”

Jaime and Brienne glowered at one another, and Jaime barely acknowledged his brother. “Indeed, it’s a fine spread. Try again, Brienne.”

Tyrion nattered on, “Fine? You _are_ turning into a snob. Did you even try the pline cake?” Tyrion blinked, and Jaime slowly twisted his head to stare at his brother. _I swear by each and every one of the blasted Seven and the old gods, did he really just say-?_. Tyrion looked like he was about to explode into laughter at his error, and Jaime looked like he was about to simply explode.

Jaime's state of shock sunk into each of the library's occupants as he opened his mouth and shut it again before finally managing to grit out between his teeth, “Try it again.”

“Did you even try the _plain-_ ”

“ _Tyrion!_ ”

* * *

The next major hurdle when it came to Brienne’s lack of diction were the ‘h’s she dropped left and right, and Jaime was practically desperate by the end of the third week. He had bemoaned the issue with Tyrion, sighing in the library as Brienne retreated to her study one evening.

“Tyrion, this is turning out to be utterly ghastly.” Jaime was nursing a glass of port, and glaring at his desk. It was currently home to a mess of tubes and household trinkets pulled apart to be repurposed into new tools for Jaime to poke and prod Brienne with. Repetition alone wasn't proving to be enough with the wench, and Jaime wasn't about to let something as silly as what had worked in the past interfere with preserving his pride.

Tyrion sighed, turning over a page in the evening paper. “Control yourself, Jaime. You have to give the poor girl a chance.”

Jaime glared at his brother. “I give her a chance every time she opens her mouth!” Tyrion peered over the pages of the paper, not bothering to dignify Jaime’s declaration with a response. Jaime screwed his face up childishly before sighing, “I gather you believe it's unfair of me to expect her to get it right the first time. Perhaps you're right.” He admitted reluctantly.

Tyrion folded up the paper, and walked over to place a brotherly hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Just try to remember that tomorrow when I’m away. I _am_ allowed a moment or two every day to be the smart brother.” Tyrion borrowed his brother’s most leonine smile, “I’d hate to have to pay Ms. Tyrell extra to clean up all the bloodshed should you forget.”

Jaime nodded with a slight chuckle, and turned his focus back to the cluttered table to continue tinkering with his latest idea. Just as Jaime challenged Brienne’s speech every morning, afternoon and evening, she was challenging every aspect of his patchwork method of teaching. That evening, he devoted himself to his newest idea with a vigor that sustained him into the early hours of the morning. He yawned as the clock in the hall stuck 2, dragging himself up to sleep.

In the morning, Jaime continued to fiddle with his new contraption, but he was finally satisfied with the kerosene lamp/speaking tube apparatus. He had cobbled it together as a decent visual aide for when Brienne missed that essential puff of air. If he was right, it wouldn’t hide any of her dropped ‘h’s from either of them.

Tyrion had left him early that morning, set forth on a mission to pay a visit to their aunt at Jaime’s request. She was always more willing to listen to his younger brother, and Jaime wanted to secure three invitations to the Kingsguard Joust in a month, craving a deadline even earlier than the King’s Unification Feast. Aunt Catelyn was their best chance at securing an invitation for all three of them without having to once talk to his father.

He was inordinately pleased with himself, practically beaming when Brienne walked through the door of the library that morning. His smile turned roguish when she hesitated upon seeing he was alone in the room, and he hid a grin as she strode over to him, her spine forged in the stubborn steel of hers.

“Time to work on your ‘h’s today, wench. Sit down.”

Brienne scowled at the nickname, but complied, her brow remaining furrowed in concentration. “My name ain’ wench, it’s Brienne,” she grumbled under her breath.

“Isn’t, wench. ‘Your name isn’t’.” He needled at her, causing her to huff in irritation. "Excellent, you do know how to make an ‘h’ sound! Now, to fix that action permanently in that brain of yours, I want you to repeat after me: In Harrenhal, Highgarden and Harlaw, hurricanes hardly ever happen.” Jaime demonstrated without the speaking tube first.

Brienne’s jaw set in that now familiar stubborn line, as she took a deep breath. “In ‘Arren’al, ‘Ighgarden n’ ‘Arlaw, ‘urricanes ‘ardly hever ‘appen.” Her nose wrinkled, and her head drooped with a sigh. “Tha’ ain’ heven close.” She gritted through her teeth.

Jaime arched his brow at her, but secretly was relieved to hear her voicing her irritation. He was self-aware enough to know he had been next to unbearable during their lessons. While he would have been disappointed if it had forced Brienne out the door, he wasn't entirely sure if he would blame her. _Good. Don’t give up on me just yet, wench._ He shook his head and went to light the flame on the lamp. “Listen, and watch me closely. Now, you see the flame? Every time you say the ‘h’ correctly, the flame will waver, and if you drop your bloody ‘h’, it will remain stationary. That’s how _you_ will know you’ve done it correctly.” Jaime paused for a moment, sincerity warming his eyes. “I know you can already hear the difference, but I hoped a visual would help ease your way to success.”

Jaime picked the speaking tube up, and demonstrated the exercise again with gusto. “In Harrenhal, Highgarden and Harlaw, hurricanes hardly ever happen.” He shot a look at Brienne and frowned at her face, all screwed up as if she was in pain. “What is it?”

Brienne made a choked noise before bursting into hysterical cackling. “Yer… yer _face!_ ” She guffawed, “Ya looked like an angry ‘ousecat!” Jaime was half a second away from being offended, but Brienne’s laughter was starting to make tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and Jaime could only resist her glee for so long. Shaking his head, he laughed softly at himself. His eyes brightened as he observed Brienne’s laughter, and he thrust the speaking tube in front of Brienne, grinning as the flame danced to her giggles.

“Very funny, wench. Now observe!” She huffed a few more times, trying to keep her snickers under control, but the flickering flame soon entranced her to forget Jaime's hissing cat face. Jaime didn’t even have to push her to return to the exercise before she was glaring at the flame, trying with all her might to make it waver as she haltingly maneuvered through the tongue-twister.

 _Progress._ Jaime hid a grin as he took down notes, retreating back to his desk to let Brienne focus on the lamp’s burning wick.

* * *

While Brienne struggled up the mighty mountain of saying her ‘h’s in the correct place, Jaime plundered his library for more and more exercises. He could see her reluctantly believing him every time he insisted on the endless repetition of each phrase and tongue-twister, and Jaime’s response was to throw ten or twenty more her way. He noted how steadfastly she took on every new exercise, even as it meant another failure for her to overcome. It spurred him on to keep provoking her, finding new methods in old texts, coming up with his own complicated phrases to egg her into snapping at him with better diction than she had upon her first arrival.

The evening after Jaime had debuted his ‘h’ machine and Tyrion had tucked three invitations to the Kingsguard Joust into his hand to be filed into his desk drawer, Jaime learned why the ancient writings on Denestan and his own fight to reverse his tongue-tied manner of speech had been left in the past.

Margaery had pursed her lips in confusion when he requested she purchase marbles, and even Peckledon had been curious enough to speak up as he delivered the marbles to Jaime.

“Marbles, sir? I don’t recall you ever having to use these with me.” Jaime glanced at his butler before looking back down at the manuscript.

“You’re absolutely right, old man. Your issue was that damned need to substitute every ‘z’ sound with an ‘s’, we never needed to focus in on diction nearly as much as Miss Tarth requires.” Jaime looked up from his desk to see… _was that concern on Peckledon’s face? What on_ Westeros _had gotten into his staff?_ “Don’t tell me you’re going to be trying to usurp my role as teacher as well?” Jaime heckled his butler good-naturedly.

Peckledon coughed suddenly, his face turning red. “Absolutely not, sir.” His face went even darker, “I know Pia has her heart set on Miss Tarth’s success, sir. I like to let her know what to expect.” Jaime grinned at his butler.

“Peckledon, do my ears deceive me, or are you utilizing my elocution lessons to charm the housemaid?” Peckledon’s face flushed and he gave Jaime a sharp bow.

“If that’s all, sir.”

Jaime chuckled, waving his hand to dismiss the poor man before his badgering gave Peckledon a stroke. “Please send for Miss Tarth, Peckledon. Thank you.”

Peckledon fled, and Tyrion grinned at Jaime. “You do delight in vexing your help, don’t you?”

Jaime shrugged. “They’ll never know a boring day in my house; I am the very model of a modern employer.”

As Tyrion ascended the stairs to replace the books Jaime had discarded in his research, Brienne tapped politely on the door.

“Wench!” Jaime greeted her with a delighted smile, gesturing her in. Brienne rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“My name’s not _wench_.” She grumbled, but walked over to the chair Jaime had pulled up next to his at the desk.

“Of course it isn’t. Tonight, we go back to the days of your ancestors for inspiration. The famed maester Denestan, as legend would have it, apparently utilized a rather unique method to encourage his own diction. If it was good enough for the writer of the only lasting treatise on kingsmoots, it’s good enough for you, Brienne of Tarth.” Jaime’s own uncertainty about the efficacy of this exercise was making him distinctly _Jaime_ tonight. He was geared up, ready to deliver quips and barbs with Brienne if she dared refuse his eccentric demands tonight. He gestured to the marbles on the desk. “We’ll start by putting seven of those in your mouth, and then you’ll have to speak and enunciate as if they aren’t even there. Do you think you can manage that, wench?”

Brienne’s eyebrows shot up, in surprise, but she nodded cautiously. “I s’pose.”

“Good. Open your mouth, Brienne.” Jaime shifted in his seat, to grab the box of marbles, turning to see Brienne sitting with her lips parted. Her level of trust unnerved him for a moment, and he found himself remembering all too well how she had looked when he had burst in on her naked as her nameday on her first evening in his home. Jaime flushed slightly, gritting his teeth together. He was _not_ about to get flustered in front of the wench as if he was a barbarian. Rationally, Jaime knew his body was simply responding in a perfectly ordinary way.

Jaime had never liked being rational.

He plucked the first marble from the box, and placed it against her lips, letting it fall onto her tongue. Jaime ignored the voice screaming in the back of his head that he was being a fool, that he was going to regret letting this woman into his home, that he should have learned his lesson the last time he took on a pupil, and that this screaming was the reason he didn’t want women interfering in his life in the first place. _She’ll be gone in six months, and I won’t ever have to worry about her again, now hush_ , he chastised the voice in his head as another three marbles slipped into her mouth. Jaime’s eyes flicked to Brienne’s lovely blue ones. She was always cautious around him, and that caution still crimped the edges of her eyes, but there was more trust in them than before. Jaime swallowed slightly as he carefully placed the last three marbles on Brienne’s tongue.

“There.” Jaime cleared his throat, his cheeks heating up at how low his voice had dipped. “Now. I want you to repeat after me as if there weren’t any marbles in your mouth. Tyrion should be able to understand every word you’ve said. Are you ready?” Brienne nodded, and Jaime refused to be charmed at how awkward she looked with a mouth full of marbles.

“Red the grass beneath his feet, and red his banners bright, and red the glow of the setting sun that bathed him in its light.” Jaime held out the sheet of paper with the stanza scrawled down in his hasty handwriting.

Brienne looked positively terrified, but she inhaled deeply through her nose before plunging into the exercise, “Re’ th’ grass b’neath ‘is fee’, n’ re’ ‘is banners brigh’, n’ re’ th’ glow of th’ settin’ sun that’ bathed ‘im in its ligh’.”

Jaime gaped in horror at Brienne. She sounded _worse_ than when she had first arrived. He gulped, and in an uncertain voice, prompted her to try again. “Go on, wench. Once more.”

As Brienne took a deep breath, Tyrion started walking down the stairs from the upper level of the library. “Jaime, perhaps that poem is a little too much for Miss Tarth. Have you considered the Song of the Seven instead?” Brienne started the phrase again, and Jaime was struck as she shot a glare at his _brother_ , fury in her eyes at his suggestion she wasn’t ready for the words already in front of her.

“Tyrion, I can’t hear the wench if you keep butting in, now let us work.” Jaime tapped the page and Brienne took another deep breath.

“RE’ th’ grass b’neath ‘is fee’,” she ground out uncomfortably, doggedly pushing past the marbles with no diction manifesting whatsoever. Her voice grew louder and more desperate, but she stopped after taking a large breath, clamping her mouth shut.

“What is it?” Jaime frowned.

Brienne spat out the marbles, looking up in distress. “I swallowed one.” She said, mortified. Jaime bit his lip, looking down at the marbles in Brienne’s hand before throwing his head back and laughing.

“Good gods, of course you did!” He snorted, holding out his handkerchief to take the marbles back. “Damn and blast it, Brienne…” Jaime trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s take this as a sign the evening has come to a close, hmm? I’m sure Ms. Tyrell won’t threaten to toss all our notes into the fire if I surrender to the damned marbles.” Tyrion rang the bell, and as Brienne gathered her own paperwork by the fire, Jaime continued to chuckle at his own hubris.

Margaery entered a moment later, and Brienne murmured something unintelligible from across the room. She bent over by the fire, and finally straightened, delivering a shaky curtsy to the two men in the library. “Good nigh’, gennelmun.”

Tyrion walked over to the spirit cart, holding up the bottle of brandy. “In need of some fortitude, brother? I can’t imagine you’d enjoy the absolute disaster that experiment was.” Tyrion needled at Jaime with a decidedly Lannister grin.

Jaime returned the banter, shaking his head at the offer of a drink. “Don’t fret, Tyrion. I still plan on drinking from that cask of Dornish Red you promised me.” He sobered slightly. “I don’t plan on giving up quite yet.”

Tyrion took a drink, his lip tucked into a small smile. “You know, I believe you might just yet make a lady out of our Miss Tarth. I would have sworn you were a stone’s throw away from quitting, but you never cease to amaze me.”

Jaime returned the genuine smile. “I am rather glad you’re back from Dorne, Tyrion. I’m not sure I would know what the devil I’m playing at if it weren’t for you.”

Tyrion laughed, finishing off his drink. “Do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?”

Jaime raised his hands in surrender. “No, no. I won’t have you waxing philosophical at this hour. Try again tomorrow.” Tyrion chuckled as he exited the library. Jaime stood from his desk, and wandered over to gaze at the flames. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” He repeated to himself as he slid into his slippers, warmed by the cheery fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter revealed some challenges when it comes to my version of this story versus the musical's version of it. Obviously, the musical uses these snippets of Eliza's education to give us something to giggle about before she makes her major breakthrough... but funny writing isn't exactly my strength.  
> SO! I knew I wanted Jaime's perspective on Brienne's struggling, and I wanted to give us a chance to see him growing as a character. He's more invested in seeing Brienne succeed not just for his own pride, but for her as well, and that's a level of subtlety I initially wasn't prepared for. I think I deleted three different versions of this chapter before I was happy with this one... and it's not even that long! Writing is weird, friends.
> 
> Yesterday would have been my first day of rehearsal for Pirates of Penzance, so I've paraphrased the most famous song for a single line because I'm sentimental like that. 
> 
> Next up: There's a rainstorm in Dorne, and Brienne makes a breakthrough


	7. The Rainstorm in Dorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne makes a breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life still remains at that typical quarantine level of madness here in Seattle where everything feels urgent and then not urgent at all. Hope you and yours are able to stay safe, sane and healthy!

Tyrion wanted to kill his brother.

“The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn.” Jaime had an ice pack resting on his head as he slumped in his chair by the desk, continuing to repeat the sentence that had plagued all three of the library’s residents since the early afternoon. Tyrion shot a glare at his brother from across the library, trying to imagine how he could best murder the elder Lannister brother.

Scratch that, Tyrion didn’t want to simply kill Jaime; he wanted to unlock the secrets to traveling throughout time, find his way back to five weeks ago, and smother his brother in his sleep before either of them had stepped out into the theatre district to encounter one Miss Brienne Tarth. If he managed to accomplish that, he just might be able to return to the present and be asleep in the early hours of the morning rather than wishing he or his brother were dead. _That_ was what Tyrion craved tonight. The joys of being just on the other side of tipsy had abandoned him hours ago, and all three of the library’s inhabitants seemed to be nursing a headache sent from their own personal corner of the Seven Hells.

“Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn.” Brienne was on the couch by the fire, head resting in both of her hands as she grumbled her responses into the floor. At that moment, Tyrion felt charitable enough to spare a brief moment of pity for the poor woman; her voice was creaking with the effort of speaking, and he knew she was surely ready to fly out of her skin from having to endure this evening that never ended in her corset. In his more unforgivable moments, Tyrion felt occasional twinges of that same homicidal discontent towards the woman who towered over him even as she sat, However, she w _as_ so expert at flinging his brother’s arrogance back at him and so godsdamn determined to improve herself, it couldn’t help but mitigate Tyrion’s growing woe at having set these two stubborn fools this challenge in the first place.

“No, no, _no_. Say it again, wench. The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn.” Jaime had been drilling the same sentence since luncheon, and it had only been when the sentence refused to disappear at supper, Tyrion's thoughts had sincerely turned to murder most foul.

Last week, Jaime had done Tyrion the benefit of shooting apologetic glances his way when he set about to provoke Brienne; earlier that morning, Jaime had made the effort of apologizing in advance.

“Tyrion, I still believe she can be ready for the Kingsguard Joust… but I need to ask your forgiveness now rather than later for what it will entail.” Jaime had waited until Tyrion had soothed away any lingering exhaustion from the night before with half a pot of tea, and Tyrion had sighed.

“Come now, Jaime… surely it can’t be worse than the _marbles_.” Jaime had glowered at his younger brother, huffing in irritation.

“As if I made her swallow the blasted marbles.” Jaime grumbled before letting out his own heavy sigh, soothing his own irritation. _Would that he could learn to calm down like this when our Miss Tarth provokes him_ , Tyrion had mused, waiting patiently for Jaime to continue. “She might hate me and you for it, but I remain convinced repetition is one of the only tools that’s delivered consistently with her, and I intend to drill these exercises until it gets through her bloody head, or until I drop dead from the effort, whichever comes first. So. I do apologize, but I will not be backing down tonight.”

Tyrion had truly believed in that moment that Jaime was exaggerating, had believed his brother was simply using hyperbole to convince Tyrion to keep his spirits up into a long night. Tyrion had even _laughed_ when he first heard the sentence, teasing Jaime with its ridiculous premise. _Jaime, old man... it no more rains in the mornings in Dorne than a heatwave warms the Wall in the North!_ Tyrion now grimaced at how he could ever have thought the sentence was funny.

_Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn._

He had _not_ thought Jaime meant for Brienne to say the same phrase over and over and over and _over_ again until it felt as if no one in the library truly knew how it was actually supposed to sound.

_Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn._

_No! Again._

He had not thought his brother would send the increasingly furious Ms. Tyrell out of the library as the clock struck midnight…

_Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn._

_Wrong again, wench. The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn._

And then one…

_Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn._

And then two in the morning.

_Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn. Th’ rhainestarm in Darne staiys drizzuly in th' marn! ‘ow many times are you gonna make me say th’ damn same sen’ence?!_

_Until you get it right, wench. Again!_

And he certainly had not thought he would be sitting here wishing he had committed fratricide a month ago to avoid this hellish evening. An evening which was quickly turning into a morning that simply wouldn’t end.

In fairness, Tyrion was a fool for not being prepared for the agony currently battering at his temple. Jaime’s exaggeration was too often followed by a startling insistence to manifest his embellished promises into reality. It had charmed Tyrion into following his lead at university, and it had made the shorter man head off to Dorne, _blasted Dorne and its imaginary blasted rainstorms,_ believing all things possible. Their shared Lannister pride and cockiness had done the rest, and Tyrion knew he had his brother’s wild and volatile passion to thank for it. Still, Tyrion simply groaned as he laid a newspaper over his head, dimming the light from the library away from his aching eyes, closing them against their screaming protest with how long he had been forcing them open.

From her position on the couch, Tyrion heard a growl of irritation from Brienne. The lass had made the last few agonizing weeks with his brother _almost_ bearable. Tyrion genuinely did delight in how she managed to ruffle his brother’s feathers at every opportunity, and he hoped she would eventually master the task he and Jaime had set out for her. It would be a unique privilege to watch her dress down Jaime in a way that couldn’t evoke criticism from the man. Brienne Tarth was a firebrand, honed into a mighty blade by the Smith, destined to spar with his brother.

And while Jaime might choose to be ignorantly bewildered by his staff’s reaction to Brienne, Tyrion had not. His shrewd eyes noted every time the housemaid and Brienne exchanged looks that often translated into better posture from the taller woman, he noticed at almost every meal that Margaery was always ready to subtly clear her throat and point to the proper utensil when Brienne hesitated, and Tyrion had grinned to himself when he had spotted Peckledon's moments of rebellion where he would point to a note in Brienne’s notebook and mutter a word or two of encouragement. At every moment, Brienne’s face would light with a smile untainted by the artifice of the class Jaime and Tyrion had grown up in, and it would take a heartless man not to be moved by her sincerity with those three. Yes, she was easily worth the effort, even if he resented how he was so bone-tired, he swore he could smell it on his skin.

Peering down his nose at the small sliver of the room visible from under his makeshift newspaper hat, Tyrion saw Brienne take a deep breath. “I cann’ say it ‘gain, Professor. I’m so tired… I cann’ say it ‘nother time, I won’.” Her voice was the closest Tyrion had heard her come to pleading in the last five weeks, and he felt an urge to meddle with his own words of protest, Jaime’s earlier apology and insistence on repetition be damned.

“For the Seven’s sake, Jaime. It must be near three o’clock in the morning; do be reasonable.” Tyrion’s own plea was next to begging, and Jaime grasped the ice pack on his head, shooting an irritated grimace at Tyrion.

“I am _always_ reasonable,” he retorted. Tyrion was too weary, his fatigue prevented him from even uttering a disbelieving snort at his brother. Jaime sighed, standing with a groan. He clutched the ice pack to his head, and had enough grace to barely avoid staggering his way over to his pupil.

“Brienne, if I can go on tonight with a blistering headache, you can repeat this until you get it right.”

Tyrion lifted his head enough to see Brienne wince as she lifted her head to look at Jaime, and felt a slight twinge of amusement at the murderous look on her face. He knew that look all too well when it came to Jaime.

“I’ve go’ an ‘eadache too,” She retorted, grimacing. The pain in Tyrion’s temple was the only thing that kept him from thinking he was dreaming as he observed Jaime’s response.

His brother didn’t snap, taunt or grumble at the woman.

Jaime simply sighed and held out his pack of ice, resting it on Brienne’s head.

”Here.” He was so gentle, and Tyrion felt a flush of discomfort as he witnessed the magnitude of intimate care in Jaime’s small gesture.

Brienne grasped the ice, pressing it to her head for a moment before removing it, sighing heavily. Jaime made a small noise of amusement before sitting down on the couch next to her. Tyrion had removed the newspaper from his face, and he watched this new, different Jaime from his position in the armchair across from the pair next to the fire.

“I know your head aches. I know you're tired.” Jaime’s voice was soft and sympathetic. Tyrion had to keep checking the pain in his head to confirm this was no dream and he was indeed seeing _sincerity_ in his brother.

"I know your nerves are as raw as meat in a butcher's window. But think what you're trying to accomplish!” Jaime’s voice rose slightly in excitement, and Tyrion saw a flash of the boys they both had once been in Jaime’s green eyes. There was no weariness in his expression as he continued to encourage Brienne.

“Just think what you're dealing with. The majesty and grandeur of the Common Tongue.... It's the greatest possession we have. The noblest thoughts that ever flowed through the hearts of men are contained in its extraordinary, imaginative and musical mixtures of sounds.”

Jaime paused for a moment, sapphire and emerald eyes meeting as his voice became gentle again. “That's what you've set yourself out to conquer, Brienne. And conquer it you will.”

Brienne stared at Jaime, and Tyrion was struck by how she looked almost delicate in the darkness of early morning highlighted by the flickering embers coming from the fire. _Jaime must watch himself. In this light, he may believe her to be beautiful._ He watched Jaime's face falter and hide once more behind the Lannister façade, avoiding Tyrion's piercing gaze as he stood to walk back over to his desk. Tyrion watched his brother closely, but Jaime was controlling his expression tightly, his fatigue once more returning to fill in the surface of his face. There was still fire glimmering in his green eyes, but it took Tyrion's practiced eye to spot it.

“Now. Try it again.”

Glancing back at Brienne, Tyrion began to be concerned. She hadn’t moved since Jaime had retreated from the couch, her eyes continued to stare at the spot he had occupied. Her brow furrowed slightly, and Tyrion was grateful at least Jaime hadn’t given the poor woman a stroke with his sudden burst of warm honesty. He peered at her, and could see her throat flexing with effort, and her eyes darting back and forth as if her thoughts were racing.

"The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn."

Tyrion pinched himself. _Has Jaime finally done it?_ _Has he finally gotten through to her?_ Jaime had covered his eyes with a hand before he had settled back into his chair at the desk, and he slowly dragged it away, staring incomprehensibly at Brienne.

"What was that?" Jaime's voice was tense and low, as if all three of them had found themselves in a dream rather than a library. Tyrion felt a shooting pain in his head. _No. No dream._

Brienne swallowed again, her eyes darting up to meet Tyrion's. He thought for a moment she was about to cry, her eyes were wide with an unreleased emotion, but instead she opened her mouth again, speaking slowly. "The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn."

Tyrion’s throat was dry, and his voice was creaky as he tentatively championed the woman shaking slightly on the couch from the effort of speaking. "I think she's got it, Jaime. I think she's got it."

Jaime leaned forward, his hands perched on his desk. Tyrion could almost imagine he could see a tail twitching in the flickering shadows from the fire. His brother practically radiated the predatory nature of their house sigil as he leaned forward, placing weight on his fingers. " _Again."_

Brienne turned towards Jaime, and Tyrion caught a flash of joy in her eyes before she abandoned his gaze for his brother's. Tyrion grinned, watching professor and pupil as Brienne said it again with a greater confidence.

"The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn!" Jaime burst from his chair, letting out a triumphant whoop.

"Brienne, by the Warrior, I think you've got it! Say it again!" He crowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, barely able to restrain himself.

"The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn!" Brienne was beaming, lightness radiating from every inch of her lanky frame. Jaime cheered, running around the desk to pull her to her feet. Tyrion watched the joy on Brienne's face shine through to Jaime's as he whirled them around the library, laughing.

"Great good gods above, Brienne! You've got it!"

Tyrion bounded out of his chair, running over to them to shake Jaime’s hand heartily. “She’s got it, old man! Well done!” Jaime grinned down at his brother, boyish innocence shining through in his delight, as Brienne shyly pulled her other hand free from Jaime's. Tyrion's exhaustion didn't miss that. _Interesting._ He turned his focus to her.

“Brienne, my dear lady, tell me… where’s that damn rainstorm?” Tyrion craned his neck to look up at the girl smiling joyfully at both Lannister brothers.

“In Dorne, Mr. Lannister.” She replied. _Perfect._

Jaime’s eyes gleamed as he grabbed her by the hand again, spinning her out and back in to his arms, laughing as they awkwardly danced around the furniture, demanding her full attention.

“Now tell me, in Harrenhal…” Jaime paused their spinning, holding both her hands and her gaze firmly.

Brienne, flushed with their dancing, took a deep breath before responding with full confidence and perfect 'h's, “In Harrenhal, Highgarden and Harlaw, hurricanes hardly ever happen!”

Tyrion couldn’t help himself, he let out his own triumphant whoop as Jaime laughed, spinning Brienne through the library with a grin. “You’ve got it, Brienne! You’ve got it!”

Brienne spun away from Jaime, her own triumphant laughter rumbling pleasantly through to the tips of her toes before she curtsied to both gentlemen. “How kind of you to let me come,” She recited it almost exactly as Jaime had weeks ago, her blue eyes shining. Tyrion beamed at her, but his smile failed to come close to penetrating the dazzling light of his brother’s. Tyrion bit down on his tongue, determined to keep any sharp barbs directed towards Jaime from ruining Brienne’s victory.

“Once more, Brienne… once more to prove we aren’t dreaming.” Jaime demanded, his golden skin flush with triumph.

Brienne stood as magnificent as a white marble edifice before declaring without hesitation, “The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn, Professor Lannister.”

Jaime shouted in excitement again, sweeping Brienne into his arms to once again twirl her around the room. Just as Tyrion was feeling the need to bring all three of them back down to earth, Ms. Tyrell rapped on the door to the library to return the pre-dawn revelers back down to solid ground. She entered in her dressing gown, eyes bleary with sleeplessness. Tyrion had managed to get the details of what his brother fondly referred to as The Port Incident from his brother, and he imagined Ms. Tyrell looking rather similar to this when she had threatened to destroy her employer’s entire collection of the dessert wine.

“Are you feeling quite well, Professor Lannister?” Ms. Tyrell’s tone was scathing in its perfect cadence and seemingly deferential pitch. Only a fool wouldn't be able to ascertain she was really asking _Are you a complete and utter madman? Do you realize the time, you crackpot?_

Jaime was still too giddy to care about his displeased housekeeper, and Tyrion had to keep himself from laughing at the dichotomy of their expressions as he responded jovially, “Quite well, thank you! How are you, my dear Ms. Tyrell?” Apparently his brother was more than willing to play the eccentric crackpot tonight and risk bringing down the wrath of his housekeeper.

Brienne had settled back down on the couch, looking dazed as the adrenaline left her, a pleasant smile still hovering about her eyes and mouth. Ms. Tyrell glanced over at Brienne, her eyes softening before piercing back to Jaime.

“I thought I must have heard some sort of commotion and banging from the room, Professor.”

Jaime snorted, waving his hand dismissively. “I didn’t hear any sort of commotion, dear lady. Did you, Tyrion?” Without waiting for Tyrion’s answer, Jaime continued on contrarily, “If this keeps up, you’d better see a doctor.” Jaime turned back to Brienne, his grin taking on a hint of mania. “Now, wench! Let’s get you started on the rest of the exercises in that book before you forget everything I’ve taught you.”

Ms. Tyrell gaped at her employer, and for the first time in Tyrion’s month of residence at 27 Casterly Street, he heard the housekeeper raise her voice. “Professor Lannister, it’s almost dawn! You _cannot_ be serious!” She cried out, her voice sharp and full of warning, a warning Tyrion saw fly straight over Jaime’s head.

“What better time to work? I’m certain I’ve heard you bustling around before the sun’s up, surely you’re aware of how beneficial it is.” Jaime glanced at Tyrion, who shot his brother a similar warning look. The earlier excitement of Brienne’s success had drained from his body, and it was only the fact he was near collapsing on the carpet in a drooling slumber that kept him from dragging his brother out the door.

“Ah, on second thought, Ms. Tyrell… perhaps we’ll all retire for the night.” Ms. Tyrell let out a decidedly unladylike snort, and Jaime had the courtesy to correct himself. “I beg your pardon, the early morning.”

Ms. Tyrell nodded her thanks to Tyrion as she kneeled at Brienne’s side, murmuring too low for him to hear. He did see Brienne’s dazed smile in return as he followed his brother out the library and shut the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion spotted the housemaid and Jaime’s young butler peering around separate corners towards the library, and he felt a small prick of affection for Brienne’s faithful companions. It was one thing for members of the gentry to stay up to all hours of the night, it was quite another for those whose day started in less than a handful of hours.

“I’m almost sorry I apologized this morning!” Jaime exclaimed as they headed towards the main staircase. Tyrion let out a disapproving noise, glaring at his brother.

“Jaime, it is only the love I have for you as my brother that’s preventing me from pushing you down the stairs right now. It’s _three_ o’clock in the bloody morning!”

“Yes, yes, I know that. As if you’ve never kept me up until three in the morning.” His brother snarked back at him. “But we’ll have her ready for the joust, and that’s all that matters.”

Tyrion glanced back at his brother, his eyes sharp. “That’s all that matters? Jaime… the girl…”

Jaime stiffened, but responded breezily, “I’m in no more danger than I was when we started this endeavor, old boy.” Tyrion stopped on the first floor landing as his brother gripped the bannister tight enough to turn his fingers white. “She _is_ an admirable woman. I confess to that much. But I swear to you, I’m in no danger.”

Tyrion didn’t have the heart to call his brother a liar. He had seen the easy delight Brienne had brought to Jaime, but the day had already demanded too much of everyone at 27 Casterly Street. Tyrion was not about to bring more excitement to their lives without several days of good rest, so he gamely changed the subject as they resumed mounting the staircase.

“As you so kindly _demanded_ , I didn’t tell Aunt Catelyn why we needed three invitations; do you really intend to spring Brienne on her without any warning?”

Jaime grinned. “And miss the chance to see her shocked face? I’d rather face the Warrior with my left hand. She’s surely going to take one look at Brienne and adopt her as one of hers just as she did you and me.” He sobered slightly, as both men paused on the second floor landing. Jaime glanced at Brienne’s door, and Tyrion could see his Professor visage settle into the creases of his brow and into the hunch of his shoulders. “The time has come to try her out. If Brienne has any chance of success at the Unification Feast, she must be tossed to the wolves to see how she fares amongst the elite. The Joust is a perfect opportunity for it, and I know Aunt Catelyn’s box will keep our experiment from total ruin should she fail.”

While Tyrion knew it was really to his benefit should their experiment with Brienne be unsuccessful, he paled slightly at Jaime’s seriousness. “Is that a possibility, Jaime?”

Jaime’s eyes crinkled into a fond smile. “We’re making progress, Tyrion. Truly. Tonight was just the beginning, but I cannot let one night’s success lead me into a false sense of security.” The smile tightened as Jaime’s eyes flicked away from his brother. “I’m not careless enough to devote my time to another simpering fool.” He raised his hand to prevent Tyrion from interrupting him to come to Brienne’s defense. “ _I know_ , I know. The wench is no fool, and I’d be one to describe any part of her as simpering.” His smile warmed again as he climbed the rest of the way up the stairs to their separate rooms on the third level. “Now. Let’s be off to bed, shall we? I think we’ll surprise the wench in the morning with a new dress for the Joust. Give her something to look forward to.”

As Jaime reached his bedroom door, he frowned at it, turning to Tyrion. “Where does one buy a lady’s gown?”

Tyrion’s reply was instantaneous. “Olenna’s, of course.” Jaime peered at Tyrion suspiciously, and Tyrion had the grace to blush.

“How in the seven hells do you know that?”

Tyrion shrugged, refusing to be further ruffled by his brother’s sharp tone of disbelief, and most certainly determined to keep his personal experience with ladies and Olenna's firmly to himself.

“Common knowledge, old man. We really must get you out into civilized society more.” Tyrion blamed the late hour for Jaime’s exaggerated roll of the eyes and smiled up at him innocently. “A new dress, eh? And I suppose I’m to pay for this one as well?”

Jaime scowled, his eyes flicking down to the lower floor’s landing as the two men heard the door to the library opening. “It won’t be too much. Something simple, but… elegant.” Tyrion caught a hint of pink on his brother’s cheeks as he turned away from staring at the stairs. “I can’t abide those ridiculous frocks with… weeds here and weeds there.” He gestured vaguely at his waist and head. “The wench would look ridiculous in something ostentatious, so I promise it won’t be too strenuous a lean on your earlier promise.”

Tyrion chuckled as the two brothers parted for their separate doors. Jaime grinned over his shoulder. “Now the dress for the Unification Feast… that’s a whole different story.”

Tyrion was going to kill his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhh Buh BYE DIALECT. Oh my GOD, I'm so glad Brienne gets to talk like a normal person now. If the positions had been reversed and I had to write a dialect for Jaime, I would've abandoned this story on Chapter 1. But I adore Brienne, so she made it worth it. That being said, GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE.
> 
> Coming up with the Westeros equivalent for the Rain in Spain was a CHALLENGE. First, I had to make sure it had enough things that Brienne would say wrong, and then I needed to make it fucking rhyme. Here were some of my rejected first attempts:  
> 1\. Hail in the Vale (couldn't find a rhyme I liked)  
> 2\. Squall in Harrenhal (I had already used Harrenhal in the 'H' exercise, and it looked funny to have Brienne dropping her 'L' sounds)  
> 3\. Tsunami overwhelms the Dothraki (I ALMOST wish I had found a way of making this one work, but I used up all my genius with this idea on pairing tsunami and dothraki together in the first place)
> 
> Writing from Tyrion's POV was nice because he got to channel a lot of my anguish at these two idiots who don't realize how in love they are. It was also a good challenge to set for myself because he's a character I wasn't sure I have a firm grasp on.
> 
> Next chapter: Brienne has capital 'F' Feelings about dancing with Jaime Lannister. (But to be fair... who wouldn't?)


	8. I Could Have Danced All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has capital F Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank everyone for their patience on this next installment. I was exposed to COVID-19 at work a few weeks ago (all safe now, but it was certainly frightening!), a friend passed away, and I was too overwhelmed by current events to feel like it was the right time to work on what is very much a sweet story. 
> 
> I made a change to the previous chapter because I wanted more dancing and to play with some of Brienne's POV of what happened in it! If you already read that chapter, I've included the changes here so you don't have to go searching.  
> \--  
> “Once more, Brienne… once more to prove we aren’t dreaming.” Jaime demanded, his golden skin flush with triumph.
> 
> Brienne stood as magnificent as a white marble edifice before declaring without hesitation, “The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn, Professor Lannister.”
> 
> Jaime shouted in excitement again, sweeping Brienne into his arms to once again twirl her around the room. Just as Tyrion was feeling the need to bring all three of them back down to earth, Ms. Tyrell rapped on the door to the library to return the pre-dawn revelers back down to solid ground.

_He danced with me._

“Once more, Brienne… once more to prove we aren’t dreaming.”

Brienne was almost glad a small corner of her mind was still thumping unpleasantly against her skull. The early hours of the morning made the library at 27 Casterly Street feel almost like a dream-world, and yes, she was actually grateful the twinges in her head proved it was no dream.

She was awake, and she was speaking like Jaime, like Tyrion, like every man and woman who had sneered at her from the very first moment she started selling flowers as an awkwardly tall child in a strange city away from all she knew and had held dear, trying her best to have her rough sea-fairing voice carry above the crowds. There was no hint of that roughness now. Her voice was finally on its way to sounding refined; it carried the poise Pia had drilled into her as she spoke elegant words, it carried the status Margaery had told her she could demand at a table set with a feast fit for a King, and it rang out in perfect cadence just as Peck had claimed it would. Brienne’s legs were shaking from finally being able to do justice to all the work every single resident of 27 Casterly Street had done.

With the exception of Jaime mercurial need to badger her into a fury, Brienne had been overwhelmed with the patience of everyone else in the house as she had struggled to wrestle command of the Common Tongue. Brienne hated that inconstancy more than anything, especially as Peck, Pia, Margaery and even Tyrion’s continuing steadiness had pushed her more and more towards the success she now stubbornly clung to in the early morning darkness. She had hated her inconsistent speaking more than the hole in her old hat, more than her father’s constant badgering for money, more than Jaime’s devastatingly handsome face when he talked passionately about language.

_That's what you've set yourself out to conquer, Brienne. And conquer it you will._

Jaime’s eyes were still peering up at her expectantly, filled with the same fire from earlier when he had declared to the room (and to the world, for how it had filled Brienne’s soul with confidence) she would find triumph. It had burned away the last tendrils of Brienne’s self-doubt, flinging the ashes into the ether as she had spoken with perfect diction. She had put so much effort into the exercises and the drilling assigned to her by Jaime. She had dove straight in to the extra work Margaery, Peck, and Pia had stepped up to help her accomplish, she had spoken with marbles in her mouth, she had huffed with flames in her face, but a small and persistent corner of her mind had continued to whisper enticing doubts in her mind. _You look like a fool, who do you think you’re kidding? No matter how hard you’ll try… you’ll never be good enough_.

But tonight, Jaime’s honest and impassioned belief had overridden those reservations. She had been awestruck by his certainty in her. Perhaps it was the late hour, perhaps it was the way he had championed her hard work, perhaps it was just the way his eyes had looked in the firelight, daring her self-consciousness to try and disagree with him. Whatever it was, Brienne had forgotten to worry about the hints and the tricks and the way her tongue was supposed to hit her teeth just so, had opened her mouth, and the right sounds had flown out before she knew it.

She opened her mouth again, and the sentence flowed out like a certain type of magic. Speaking so eloquently _was_ a type of sorcery, for it melted away her fatigue and allowed her to straighten to her full height, grinning widely at the two men beaming up at her. “The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn, Professor Lannister.”

She heard Tyrion let out a celebratory whoop, but all noises faded into the distance because Jaime’s arm was around her waist _again_ , and her hand was in his, and they were spinning, and he was laughing, and they were _dancing._

_He is dancing with me._

Joy had always been dangerous in Flea Bottom. Even Brienne’s strong frame and prickly nature had not been quite enough to detract some men from trying to overcome “Bronn’s Beast” or “Big Brienne”, as they had called her. Her father’s reputation as a cad had turned Brienne into more of a target rather than less of one. It wasn’t until she had broken three consecutive jaws they had stopped trying to pin her against walls in the dark and dingy alleys of Flea Bottom. She had never thought being in a man’s arms was something to be wished for, and she had thought to be content with her flowers and her unrealistic dreams. It was only in her dreams that men treated her as tenderly as she had cared for her violets.

But here in Jaime’s arms, she felt _glorious_. Maybe it was the way the velvet of her skirts whispered against her skin every time they spun as Jaime’s legs and her twined together in a version of a waltz, maybe it was the way she could feel heat from Jaime’s strong arms seeping into her lower spine, maybe it was both of their breathless laughs as they tried to twirl around the various chairs in the library. Maybe it was how gently he swept her around the room, like she was a princess and not the slightly less grubby flower girl she had been just a month ago.

Whatever it was, Brienne never wanted it to stop.

The library door creaked open as Margaery tapped briskly to announce her presence, and Jaime seemed to have the presence of mind to hear it, inhaling sharply before stepping away from Brienne. For a moment, his piercing green eyes seemed to bore through the residual headache thumping against her skull and Brienne had to surreptitiously pinch herself to ensure she _hadn’t_ been dreaming because no man had ever looked at her like _that_ in the real world. As the pain in her leg pricked her senses, she glanced up to see Margery frowning at Jaime. He shot Brienne a mischievous grin before turning to cheerfully do battle with his housekeeper. Brienne sank down to the couch, her knees weak with fatigue. _And_ only _fatigue,_ she chided herself, resolutely ignoring how her face had flushed from Jaime’s boyish grin.

“Are you feeling quite well, Professor Lannister?” Brienne’s attention drifted away as Margaery chastised Jaime. Her thoughts traitorously decided to be more pleasantly occupied as she imagined herself once more spinning in Jaime’s arms. It was the happiest she had ever been in her _life_ , and she was too exhausted to keep reminding herself of how that should terrify her. Master of the house and its fearsome housekeeper badgered one another outside of Brienne’s attention, until she heard Jaime turn his focus back to her.

She glanced up briefly when she heard that _wretched_ nickname directed her way. “Now, wench! Let’s get you started on the rest of the exercises in that book before you forget everything I’ve taught you.” Brienne blinked slowly, automatically reaching for the exercise book before Margaery lost her temper and _yelled_ at Jaime.

“Professor Lannister, it’s almost dawn! You cannot be serious!” Brienne’s mind fogged over in relief once more as Margaery’s fury sent both of the Lannister brothers meekly up the stairs. She heard her name being called through the fog of exhaustion, and blinked slowly as she gazed up at Margaery. The door to the library closed as Brienne managed a slightly unfocused smile at the weary housekeeper.

“Brienne, dear. Wake up a little for me, please.” Margaery’s voice was layered with concern and it brought Brienne back down to earth. Her smile grew more focused, and she blinked away the sleep threatening to close her eyes as she took in Margaery’s furrowed brow and twisting hands. She would not have succeeded tonight without the help of this firebrand of a woman, and she had to swallow to keep from bursting into sudden hysterical tears.

“I did it.” She instead murmured softly. Margaery looked down at her with a quirk to her brow in confusion, and Brienne straightened slightly on the couch before repeating the words that had conquered the night. “The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn.”

Margaery’s eyes grew wide. She knelt by Brienne’s side, wrapping her delicate hands around Brienne’s larger ones and squeezing them tightly. Her head was ducked down, and Brienne couldn’t see her face. “Well done, Brienne.” Margaery’s voice was tight with suppressed emotion, and it warmed Brienne’s heart to hear the restrained pride in those small words.

Jaime’s dedication to being her taskmaster had almost caused Brienne to collapse for days on end, and if it hadn’t been for the patient coaching from Margaery (and the two heads now peering into the library), she was certain she would have walked out the door after setting fire to Jaime’s phonograph. Brienne glanced away from Margaery in time to see Pia bursting through the doors as she confirmed there were no Lannisters still occupying the library.

“What in all the seven _hells_ was all that commotion? Crone’s teeth, I thought he meant to keep you working until dawn!” Pia exclaimed, rushing over to Brienne and Margaery. Peck followed in after her, shutting the door to the library behind him. Rather than rush over to the three women, Peck began to restore the library for the morning. Brienne smiled warmly at Peck’s routine steadiness.

It had become a soothing balm at the end of a day of trading retorts with Jaime. He had quite quickly been sorted into the ‘safe men’ category of her mind. He was gentle and straightforward with her, often interspersing their evening lessons with stories of Jaime’s woeful attempts teaching him.

“I’m not entirely certain he and I weren’t just lucky when I eventually managed to churn out a full sentence. One minute he's crowing about the Common Tongue, the next I’m reciting the Song of the Seven just to get the gods to quiet the man down in some fashion.” Peck had laughed at Brienne’s face screwed up in sympathy for his past self when he had regaled her with that story a week ago.

“Did... did it take you as long as it’s takin’ me?” Brienne had asked quietly. Midnight had just struck in the hallway outside her small study. It had been another long day, and Brienne was doing her best to avoid any words with an ‘h’ sound just to pretend like she had finally mastered it. Margaery had left Brienne in Peck and Pia’s capable hands that evening, leaving them to their “hissing and spitting” as Brienne wound down the night with breathing exercises.

Peck had taken in a deep breath. He shot a glance towards Pia before the smaller woman could catch it, and had fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket before replying. “It took me three years of work with Professor Lannister before talking like this became normal.” Pia had straightened on her stool, and Brienne could see her resisting the urge to reach out to comfort him. She had felt her heart soften, looking at the pair of them, and their awkward courtship almost was enough to distract her from the reality of Peck’s answer.

Almost.

“Three years?” She had whispered faintly, her eyes wide. Peck shifted uncomfortably in his perch on the desk, tugging at an invisible loose string on his jacket sleeve. Pia fussed with the hem of her skirt, and looked up at both of them defiantly.

“You’ll be fine, Brienne.” Pia had declared. Peck had frowned down at her, but she had jutted her head stubbornly. “She’ll be fine, Jos. She has us, after all.” Her expression softened, and she had reached out to gently place a hand on Peck’s. “You didn’t have anyone but yourself.” Brienne had been determined to succeed for her own sake up to that point, but she had vowed to succeed for theirs after that night.

Back in the library, Peck doused the lamps and shook out the curtains so they would be ready to welcome in daylight in a few short hours. Brienne was blearily thankful to at least see that dawn hadn’t yet begun to filter through the curtains as she struggled to hold onto reality in the midst of her fatigue, following Peck’s movements through the room as a way to stay awake and present.

“Brienne?” Margaery had relinquished her hold on Brienne’s hands only for Pia to take them up in hers, and she squeezed them to get Brienne’s attention. Brienne’s gaze fell to this second set of small hands upon hers, and she once again felt a surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

Brienne brought her gaze back up and grinned at the young woman who looked just as tired as she felt. Pia’s soft brown hair was straggling out from under her cap, and she had dark circles under her eyes. All of the library’s occupants were exhibiting different signs of the grogginess Brienne felt. Margaery was briskly collecting the jackets and handkerchiefs strewn about the library while covering gaping yawns as she moved through the room, and Peck’s movements were more slow and careful than usual, as if he was anticipating falling asleep halfway through extinguishing one of the lamps.

Brienne’s heart felt close to bursting with something akin to love at these three people who had been strangers just a month ago. They hadn’t known a thing about her outside of her ragged clothes and her initial shouting match with Jaime, and they had devoted what little time they had to spare to helping her conquer the seemingly impossible. Pia continued to look down at her with a quizzical look in her eyes, and Brienne squeezed her hand back.

“The rainstorm in Dorne stays drizzly in the morn.” Brienne repeated the phrase, even closer than before to weeping at how she had finally managed to get every sound right. She saw Peck violently straighten Tyrion’s armchair as he overheard her successfully navigate each sound without hesitation, and if Brienne had been a betting woman, she would have put money on seeing the poor gangly man sniffing and wiping a tear from his eye before turning to roughly shake out one of the throw blankets. Pia sank down to kneel at Brienne’s side, looking up at Brienne. Her exhaustion faded to be replaced with a soft jubilation in Pia’s eyes.

“You _finally_ did it! We knew you would. Jos has been saying it for days now.”

Brienne faintly observed Peck’s face turning a bright shade of red as Margaery archly said. “Oh he has, has he? What else have you and _Jos_ been talking about, Pia?”

Pia let out a small squeak, realizing her slip of the tongue. “That’s all, Ms. Tyrell. J- _Peck_ and I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page with Miss Tarth.” Pia mouthed a tiny “oops” towards Brienne with a blushing grin.

Margaery pursed her lips, but in the darkness of twilight, it could have been mistaken as a smile.

“If the Professor asks me about it, Pia, I know nothing.” Margaery conceded before turning to straighten the pokers by the fireplace.

Brienne saw Pia and Peck both flush and grin at one another, and it made Brienne let out a decidedly unladylike snort. Her weariness soon transformed her snort into hysterical giggles, and Margaery tutted as both she and Pia managed to get Brienne up on her feet, ignoring her helpless laughter.

“That’s quite enough of this staying awake nonsense, Brienne. Pia, I don’t care if you have to slip a sleeping draught into their morning coffee, you must ensure the professors don’t wake her up until midday. She needs to _sleep._ ” Margaery shooed Brienne out into the hallway as she hiccupped through her continuing giggles. Pia followed close behind, and took Brienne’s arm in hers.

“I say, I do believe we have our marching orders, don’t we?” Pia laughed as Margaery shot a final battalion-commanding glare towards the two women. “Come now. Let’s get you to sleep.”

Brienne’s laughs finally quieted down as they mounted the stairs, and she glanced over at the housemaid. “I would never have made it through this wivv-without you,” she confessed softly. Pia’s eyes were warm as she looked up to share Brienne’s smile.

“That’s not true. You are a force to be reckoned with, Miss Tarth,” Pia’s eyes twinkled as she addressed Brienne like the lady she was beginning to sound like. “You might have dragged the Professor down to Blackwater Bay and tried to drown him a week in, but I have faith you would be able to get him to continue teaching you even if he were half-drowned.”

Pia opened the door to Brienne’s room, the room Brienne was beginning to call ‘home’ in her mind. “Ms. Tyrell, Jos, and I… we just helped. You did the work, Brienne.”

The two women fell into what was now their easy routine once the door closed behind Brienne. Pia went to start a bath in the adjoining washroom, as Brienne pulled a nightgown out for herself. Pia returned from the washroom to help pull the pins from Brienne’s hair. Brienne’s eyes were bright, grimacing only slightly when the sweat-drenched strands slid down her neck. “So it’s Jos, iss- is it?” Brienne glanced in the mirror at the reflection of the two women as Pia flushed. Never in a million summers would Brienne had thought she could find the ease with another person to be teasing them about their sweethearts, but tonight still had an aura of a dream to it, and Brienne felt bold and downright feminine in this dreamland.

Pia giggled as she efficiently undid the buttons of Brienne’s shirtwaist. “He’s sweet and quiet, and he treats me like a princess. If I ever am able to be more than a housemaid, I think he means to ask me to marry him.” Pia sighed happily, folding the shirtwaist as Brienne stood to wriggle out of her skirt and petticoat. Brienne’s mind turned to earlier in the evening, and something about the pre-dawn hours gave her the courage to keep talking.

“Would you say yes, if he asked you? What… what does that _feel_ like?” She asked as both women stepped into the bathroom. Pia fiddled with the faucets as the tub continued to be filled with steaming hot water, peering over at Brienne in consideration.

“I would, I think. Jos doesn’t ever ask me to be more than who I am, and he knows I’d haul him up before Ms. Tyrell and a septon if he ever did anything to make me feel like I’m not meant to be right at his side.” Pia smiled down at the water filling the claw-footed tub. “There’s a sort of… excitement I get every times he looks at me. I feel I know what flying must feel like when I touch his hand. I could survive anything with Jos standing next to me, and I feel like I’d do anything to feel that way forever.” Pia cocked her head at Brienne as she sank into the water with a sigh made heavy with the exertions of the evening turned morning. “Why do you ask?”

Brienne brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, tucking her chin. She avoided Pia’s inquisitive stare as she bit at her bottom lip. “The… the Professor. Jaime. He danced with me. _He danced with me_ , and I don’t know how to describe how I feel.” Brienne brought her head up, her blue eyes swimming with distress. “I wanted to keep spinning in ‘is… in his arms until my feet went numb. I’ve never fel’, damn it all, I’ve never _felt_ that way about no one.”

“Anyone, Brienne.” Pia gently corrected her automatically, her face sympathetic. Brienne swore again softly.

“Anyone, then. I haven’t hever… _ever_ felt that way, and I don’t know what to _do._ ” Brienne’s distress seemed to be making her dialect slip back to her Fleabottom roots, and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Brienne found herself blushing, staring down at her fingers starting to wrinkle in the water. She spoke quietly, her blue eyes warm. “I have this feeling in my bones… it’s like I could fall asleep right now and not wake for a hundred years… I’m that tired. But…”

_He danced with me._

“For all the jewels in the King’s coffers, I don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight after feeling what I felt tonight.”

Pia reached out, gently tucking a strand of Brienne’s hair behind her ear. “Seeing as he _is_ my employer, I’m not sure if I have the best of advice for you, my friend.”

Brienne’s eyes were slightly wild as she captured Pia’s gaze. “What would you say if ‘e, if _he_ weren’t? Please, Pia.”

Pia, to her credit, didn’t look away. It was a silent moment before she gave Brienne a wry grin. “I’d tell you to enjoy it to the seven hells and back, Brienne.” Rising from her perch on the stool, she headed towards the doorway. “Brienne, every girl has a right to feel love and to be loved. Especially you.” Pia’s voice was as warm and sweet as it had been the day they first met, and Brienne ducked her head down once more to hide her emotions.

“Now. It’s late, or rather very early, and not one good thing comes from trying to process emotions like the ones you get whilst dancing when the clock’s already struck three. I’ll leave you to finish up, and then we’ll get you to bed.” Pia left Brienne to finish rinsing off the exertion of the day from her frame in peace, softly closing the bathroom door before beginning her usual evening puttering and tidying in the next room.

Brienne huffed in irritation at herself and plugged her nose before sinking her head to submerge fully under the water. She let the water plug her ears as she listened and felt the beating of her heart. When she had been a mere slip of a girl still able to trip and climb over the rocky cliffs bordering Tarth’s seashore, she would often find her way to the small estuary feeding into Shipbreaker Bay, abandoned by adults after countless generations of overfishing. It had been her once place of solace on the island. When her father would start to wax poetically on the benefits of leaving the impoverished isles behind for the capital, Brienne would run away to _her_ estuary, and sink down beneath the gentle waves to hear her heartbeat centering her to the world once more.

It had only been since she had been able to start taking regular baths at 27 Casterly Street that Brienne had been able to find that same tranquility. She let it sink into her skin before surfacing once more, and allowed her tired mind to examine the advice Pia had just offered.

Brienne stepped from the tub, and let her mind wander as she dried herself off. Perhaps Pia was right, and for tonight she would just sink into how _good_ it had felt to have a man wrap his arms around her and send her dancing. _Every girl has a right to love and to be loved._

Brienne blushed at the thought of categorizing Jaime’s attentions as love, but perhaps just for tonight, she would fall asleep to dreams of him taking her hand in his and kissing it like a maiden’s in a tale. Maybe tonight she didn’t need to think about the practicalities and the details and the fact that this was all a fantasy in her head spurred on by nothing but a single dance with a handsome and brilliant man.

She closed her eyes as she wrapped the blue robe, _his robe_ , around her frame, and she shivered at how intimate it felt against her skin. It was warm from its home by the copper pipes responsible for her hot water, and it felt like Jaime’s hand had felt on her back. She had heard the tales from the women who passed her by in her corner of Flea Bottom. She knew exactly what happened in the houses that lined the Streets of Silk. She had never _ever_ considered that to be something she wanted or craved, and yet as the warm quilted silk hugged her frame, she was coming to realize just how mistaken she had been.

Brienne shuddered, and swallowed to regain her composure, gently scolding herself. Pia had said to enjoy the feeling, not become a wanton Silk Sister in the bathroom. She tucked the robe firmly around her frame and struggled not to blush as she marched wearily back into her bedroom. Her fatigue was threatening to topple her, and it was only in a haze that Brienne realized she had allowed Pia to unwrap her from her robe to dress her in her nightgown and lead her with a weary chuckle to bed.

“Sleep, Brienne,” Pia said with a smile. “The best things might happen while you’re dancing, but for tonight… the rest of your dancing will have to be in your dreams.” Pia gave Brienne’s hand another reassuring squeeze before leaving her to collapse on the mattress. The housemaid hesitated as she extinguished the last lamp in the room by the door frame. “Sometimes, all it takes is a moment. A dance, a look… sometimes all you have to do is hold that certain someone in your arms, and you know.”

Pia’s words threatened to send Brienne’s mind spiraling, because there was a corner of her mind that didn’t need to ask her “know what?”, there was a corner of her mind that knew exactly what Pia meant, and she was finally too exhausted to try and figure out how she felt anymore. So instead, Brienne let her eyes drift close, and fell asleep with a very tangible dream of a golden head of curls resting against her knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter, but the next one will more than make up for it. We've got JOUSTING coming up!  
> I'm doing the JB fic exchange, so I'm going to be switching my focus between that and this for the next month, but as always... I promise I haven't abandoned you! The chapter of this story that I've wanted to tell has always been the final moments of the play, so I can safely say I will continue to write this until I get that itch out from my system. Thank you again for reading and for your patience with me! Y'all are the best, and this is truly the best fandom <3
> 
> Next Chapter: Brienne is put to the test, and familiar faces reappear.


	9. The Kingsguard Gavotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the Kingsguard Joust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jousting is here! Well, racing. 
> 
> When I was a kid, I got to go to the inaugural race at the Emerald Downs racetrack,so I had fun/conniptions about channeling that same excitement 5 year old Katherine had into Brienne. 
> 
> To all of you who left me such kind words re: my outside life in your comments on the last chapter, I'm sending you the biggest of virtual hugs. Thank you <3

“ _Pia! Fetch my sewing kit and a fresh tray of tea!”_

The yell from his housekeeper shook Jaime from his sleep the morning of the Kingsguard Joust with a jolt. Recovering from the initial shock of Ms. Tyrell’s battle-cry, Jaime rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he sat up to the rays just starting to filter through the drapes in his bedroom. His mouth stretched into an anticipatory smile as he listened to the household’s excited bustle already in full swing. Jaime despised the pomp and circumstance of acquiring an invitation to the Joust and had refused to put forth the effort since before he owned the townhouse. Iit was Ms. Tyrell’s first social event since coming under his employment. Jaime shook his head with a grin. _No small wonder she has the house in regimented order before dawn for the first event of the social season._

Jaime hadn’t bothered with the Joust since becoming his own man, now that he really thought about it. His father, head of the rich but untitled Lannisters, had constantly sought attendance for the Lannister family in their own right in the hopes it would result in an invitation directly from the Crown. However Tywin Lannister, cursed of both highborn and lowborn alike, had seen years pass in which the Crown maintained its entrenched and old-fashioned traditions. The Lannisters could seek an invitation provided by one of the highborn families, but they were not to be given their own invitations by His Majesty. When Catelyn Tully had married into the young Stark family, it had been the final straw for his father. Jaime saw how much it grated at his father to have to request an invitation from a woman who was close enough in age to be married to his son, and the new Lady Stark had taken far too much joy in making Tywin continue to ask each year for an invitation.

When Jaime had refused to marry the other Tully sister right out of university, Tywin had disowned him and declared he would never beg “that wretched chit of a girl” for an invitation again. Jaime had fondly adopted her as his “aunt” the very next day much to her chagrin, and they had spent the better part of the last decade wheedling at one another from their respective places in society.

Lady Catelyn Stark, eight years older and now a widow, was to be his ally today, so he was determined to make a fine impression on his favorite “aunt”. Knowing Tyrion would be trussed up to the very definition of the dress code issued by the royal court, Jaime grinned as he eyed his trusty professor tweeds. Still made of fine wools, yes, but every weave of its durable fabric would make Jaime stand out He hoped it was enough to make dear Lady Stark remember she was actually quite fond of him.

“Josmyn Peckledon, will you _stop_ your hovering, for Seven’s sake?” Jaime’s drowsy reflections were broken by Pia chastising poor Peckledon outside the door. “Either wake those two up or leave me be, Brienne will be just _fine_.” Jaime laughed silently as he caught the sound of Peckledon’s mumbled and surely woeful reply through the door. He decided to spare the poor lad any further abuse and promptly rang the bell for service.

Jaime caught a glance of Pia rushing by with her arms full of gauzy fabric as Peckledon’s miserable face appeared in the doorway. “Nothing for it, old boy. Pia’s taking a leaf out of Ms. Tyrell’s book today, and I suggest we give both those warriors a wide berth. They’ve got a future Princess of the Andals to dress today.” Jaime greeted his butler, who took a deep breath before nodding fervently.

“Yes, sir. I was wondering if it might be prudent to have you and Professor Lannister break your fast in your rooms?” Jaime threw his head back and laughed.

“Smart man. Make it so, Peckledon. And don’t waffle about when it comes to waking up Master Tyrion. He’s the least of our worries today.” Peckledon nodded enthusiastically once more, and Jaime held back a snicker as his butler made his retreat. He caught the sound of a knock followed by a muffled groan of protest coming from his brother’s rooms before Jaime shut the door, blocking out the mayhem of his household.

The men of the house wisely spent the rest of the morning staying far and away from the bustle and organized chaos of the floor below theirs as they quietly dressed and ate. Jaime and Tyrion both grinned at one another as they turned their critical eyes towards one another outside their rooms.

“Ah, going with the relaxed definition of His Majesty’s dress code, I see.” Tyrion arched a brow at his brother’s tweeds as Jaime straightened his tie and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the lapel. Both men began descending the stairs as the clock in the hallway struck eleven. 

“I see no reason to remind Aunt Catelyn how much she despises Father by showing up dressed exactly like the man. In any case, I’m hoping our outrageous appearance after our prolonged absence will help those vipers forget any blunders the wench might suffer. They won’t attack her if they have the wretched Lannister brothers to gossip about.” Jaime replied airily.

Tyrion wasn’t deceived by Jaime’s apparent nonchalance. He looked at Jaime with a focus more suited to a sharpshooter than a professor and paused on the stairs, forcing Jaime to stop and look up at him.

“At the risk of sounding repetitive-“

“That has _never_ stopped you before.”

Tyrion glared. “As I was saying, at the risk- oh, damn it all to the Seven Hells, man. Do you really think she’s ready? Are you certain you just haven’t fallen in love with the idea she’ll stun the world as an undiscovered highborn lady at the Joust, only to have the entirety of the Royal Court throwing themselves at her at the King’s Unification Feast?”

Jaime’s smile sharpened into one with very little patience for his little brother. “Do you really think I would be so idiotic? She doesn’t deserve to meet these fools under the pressure of the feast. Here, she can make a mistake and I can save her. Crone’s teeth, Tyrion, do you think so little of me?”

His brother muttered an apology as they wandered into the library where Peckledon had set out a small coffee service. The two professors waited for Brienne to join them in a pensive silence. Jaime accepted a cup of coffee from his butler and wandered over to the window to watch the street bustling with activity. Half of his neighborhood in this corner of King’s Landing would be unlucky enough to be joining them at the Joust, and Jaime tried not to be wistful for his previous years of non-attendance.

This was an important step for Brienne, and Jaime took a fortifying gulp of coffee to steady his nerves and soothe his irritability. He had taken Peckledon to his father’s private supper club when he had been ready to test the waters of society, but Brienne would require all the pomp and circumstance of a royal event to be prepared for the Unification Feast.

_Is she truly prepared for this? Or am I really just fooling myself?_

Jaime bit back a sigh and sipped at his coffee pensively. Brienne had dazzled him ( _and Tyrion,_ his mind supplied helpfully just a moment too late) three weeks ago. Just yesterday morning, he had heard the wench flawlessly reciting the damned poem from the abandoned marble mishap, and it was only the light of day that had kept him in his seat instead of sweeping her up in his arms.

_“Dazzled me”, indeed. Great good gods, man, stop it with the poetry._

It had been getting progressively more difficult for Jaime to dismiss the obnoxious poet his thoughts had transformed into since that night. He spent more of his time scolding himself than he did chastising Brienne for her grammar, a fact that made him increasingly more cross as the days went by. The Jaime Lannister of two months ago would not have found himself daydreaming of _dancing_ with the wench. He had been able to feel her very breath against his palm when they had whirled around the library, and his fingers curled tightly every time he remembered the feeling of the deep breaths she took before her joyous laughter cascaded down his spine.

He was spared any further uncomfortable musings by his brother clearing his throat as they heard movement outside of the library. Jaime once again brushed invisible dirt off his jacket, ignoring his brother’s pointed stare at the nervous tic, and glanced up as Brienne entered the library.

Tyrion’s suggestion to visit Olenna’s, _damn the man_ , was an irritatingly good one. The Joust was severe on any woman dressed frumpily, and Jaime’s knowledge of modern fashion was just enough for him to know not a single person would describe the woman towering in the doorway as frumpy.

The dress shop had crafted a suit dress flaunting the typically severe blacks and whites expected of women at the joust. Instead, Brienne was garbed in smart, tight pinstripes of grey and black, and allowing the wench to seem daring with blue ribbon teasing at her collar, the back seams of her jacket, and the cuffs of sleeves. Her hat was Jaime’s contribution to this fashion endeavor, and even Ms. Tyrell had grudgingly admitted it was close to sheer perfection for an event as fussy at the Joust.

While the dress was bold in its subtle rebellions, the hat was an explosion of frivolous; Brienne would fit right in with this decadent concoction on her head. A wide brim created a proper garden for the sheer organza in gray and black to billow from as it draped down her spine to the slight train of her skirt. The hat glittered with sapphires pinning the translucent silks into place, and the gems made Brienne’s eyes sparkle when she smiled shyly at the two men.

Jaime grinned easily back at Brienne, nodding in approval with his unschooled eye. According to the dressmaker, Brienne had the perfect balance of fashionable rebellion to make her seem like any other modern woman at the Joust, but all was within the confines of respectable. _Quite the contrast to my rude tweeds and refusal to don a top hat._

“Well, wench. I daresay you’ll be the talk of the town.” Jaime resolutely tugged at his cuffs when he saw Brienne flush. “When we arrive, Tyrion will stick to your side like glue while I soothe Lady Catelyn’s ruffled feathers at having to deal with her two favorite Lannisters experimenting under her watch. Do try and remember to stick to two topics since that’s all those damn exercise books are really good for: everyone’s health and the weather.”

Brienne glanced at both men nervously before nodding slowly, the gauzy silk of her hat moving in a lazy wave. “Of course, Professor.” Jaime grinned. He seemed to always be grinning when she spoke these days. True, the wench still stumbled on her ‘H’s, and her grammar outside of the specific phrases they had taught her was atrocious, but he still couldn’t help relishing in how far she had come.

“Perfect. We’ll have you stunning the highborn of King’s Landing today, one way or another.” Brienne’s flush deepened at Jaime’s words. Jaime swallowed at her reaction, taken aback by how delightfully awkward she looked for a moment in her elegant garb. This Brienne in front of him was still unpolished, but the organza and the velvet lining of her skirt was starting to chip away to show the woman underneath, and a small, annoying voice in the back of his head was crowing with how much he liked that woman. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tyrion looking at the pair of them with an annoyingly knowing expression, and Jaime took the time to launch into a detailed history of the Joust.

“-and after the death of his son in 1688, the King declared all future Jousts would instead feature races rather than lances. Now, as for-“ Ms. Tyrell’s knock on the door interrupted Jaime before he could start preaching on the development of current race traditions. The taxi was here, and it was time for Brienne to jump in with both feet.

\--

“Auntie!” Jaime grinned as he spotted Lady Catelyn Stark, dressed smartly in her Northern black velvets and furs.

“Jaime Lannister, what a disagreeable surprise. I daresay, one of these days I will have to set one of my feral children on you the next time you call me your Aunt.” Her grin was fond, however, as Jaime kissed her on the cheek. He shuddered at the thought of one of her Northern direwolves launching themselves at him and arched his brow at one of his oldest friends.

“And I was just about to say how lovely you look despite the required black of your widowhood, Lady Stark.”

Lady Catelyn furrowed her brow, the only warning she knew Jaime needed. “None of that, Professor Lannister. If you’ve broken your vow to never come to the Joust only to make remarks like that, I suggest you go home at once.”

Jaime took her hand and bowed over it as he acknowledged his misstep. “I do apologize, Catelyn. Damned wretched of me to bring up Ned when I’m about to ask you for a favor.” Catelyn tightened her hand around his as a final small rebuke before tucking her arm in Jaime’s. She led them easily through the crowd to the Royal Enclosure where the Stark’s family box was located.

“I thought there might be something to bring you and that outrageous suit here other than lingering spite for that father of yours. I daresay, if the magistrates drag you away for being underdressed, I shan’t move to help you.” The ten years spanning between the two friends gave Catelyn distinct and growing crinkles around her eyes that deepened with knowing mischief as she looked over at Jaime. “What are you about to subject my guests to, Jaime? You do know how much you vex them when you’re here. I believe you even convinced Lysa never to speak to me again.”

He grinned, tipping his hat to her. “As much as I do love the thought of my father stewing away in his offices knowing I both subjected myself to asking you for an invitation and attended in my tweeds, I am here on business. Tyrion and I have picked up a girl.”

“Jaime, please do not tell me you’ve brought a woman from the Streets of Silk to the Joust, I beg of you. There will most certainly be men who recognize her if you have, and I-“

“Now, now, Aunt,” Jaime interrupted. “I haven’t done anything nearly as exciting as that.” Catelyn scowled at him and pinched him hard on the arm. “I –ah! I simply found a new pupil. A flower girl from Flea Bottom. I’m taking her to the King’s Unification Feast. But I wanted to try her out first.”

“I beg your pardon?” Catelyn looked like the pinnacle of respectability as she arched her brow at Jaime. He laughed at her outrage before pulling a chair out for her.

“Now, now, Aunt. She’s perfectly lovely, if a bit stubborn, and she’s coming here to your box today, you’re the one who invited her, remember?” Catelyn glared up at Jaime before sitting down primly, worrying at a button on her glove.

“Really Jaime… a flower girl?” Jaime grinned at the war happening between Catelyn’s desire to be a welcoming host and her ingrained sense of propriety, knowing all too well which side would win.

“I cannot promise _not_ to disgrace you, but with your excellent help, I’m sure she’ll be just fine, Auntie.” Catelyn huffed and straightened her glove, shooting Jaime an exasperated look. He really did have a way with making women wish to murder him with a nickname. “Ah, as long as you stick to talking about the weather and everyone’s health.”

Jaime watched as Catelyn shot a look to the heavens. “The weather and everyone’s health. At the Kingsguard Joust.” Her voice was dry with sarcasm.

Jaime shrugged, glancing around to see if he could spot Brienne. “Well, she’s got to talk about _something._ ”

Catelyn sighed, and Jaime would have placed money on hearing her swearing like a Pykish sailor at him under her breath, but her good manners had her simply reply resignedly, “Where is the girl now?”

Jaime grinned. “I knew you’d help. She had some difficulty with the hat we bought her getting tangled in the door of the taxi, Tyrion insisted he could fix it, so they should be around any moment. I did try and get the wench to practice wearing it around the house, but-” Catelyn interrupted with a warning cough before turning to welcome her guests. Jaime meekly tipped his hat her way.

“Lord Baratheon, Mr. Baratheon, how lovely to see you again. I’m sure you know Professor Lannister. Jaime, may I present Lord Stannis Baratheon and his brother, Mr. Renly Baratheon.”

Jaime turned his tipped hat to the two men bowing over Catelyn’s hand. Lord Baratheon looked sourly at Jaime’s tweeds and pointedly his own top hat and gave him the briefest disapproving nod and a tightly uttered, “How do you do.”

Mr. Baratheon was similarly dressed, but shot Jaime an easy smile along with his cheery, “How do you do.” Jaime’s brow furrowed as both men introduced themselves. _I’ve heard that pinched oo sound before._

“I’ve seen you somewhere before.” Jaime declared, ignoring Catelyn’s frown.

Lord Baratheon raised a stiff and gray eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know.” He replied.

Jaime shrugged with disinterest as he turned away from the dour man. _Lord or not, you’re duller than a Maester’s journal in winter_. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. You’d best sit down.” Ignoring Catelyn’s loud sniff of disapproval, he once again peered through the crowds, irritated at the large feathered hats obstructing his view. “Where in the seven hells are they?” He muttered.

Jaime sighed with relief as he soon spotted Brienne taking careful steps, also managing to spot his brother leading the way through the glitz and glamor of the Royal Enclosure. _Graceful,_ Jaime mused, and he slow steps gave him just enough time to recall how she had been grander than a queen when they had danced in the library. He caught her eye from across the crowd, and that wretched small voice in the back of his head smugly noticed her relax upon seeing him.

He cleared his throat, waving to his brother, as he staunchly ignored that small voice.

“Tyrion, my dear. You’ve made it just in time for tea.” Catelyn’s words were polite and effortless from her many years as hostess-extraordinaire as she stood to greet Jaime’s brother and Brienne. Jaime was impressed as he saw a slight widening in Lady Stark’s eyes but no other wonder at Brienne’s appearance. For all of Jaime’s earlier claims that her height made no difference in the grand scheme of things, Brienne was a commanding presence, and the fashion of the Joust seemed designed to highlight everything that made the wench unique. Tyrion bowed to Lady Catelyn before presenting Brienne to her.

“Thank you ever so much, Lady Stark. May I introduce Miss Brienne Tarth?”

Jaime sent a small prayer of thanks to the Mother as Catelyn looked Brienne up and down. He watched the careful lines on her face soften as she nodded gracefully to the younger woman. _I knew she’d like the wench._

“My dear Miss Tarth, welcome.”

Brienne swallowed nervously, but her blue eyes were locked onto Catelyn’s as she curtsied like she had been borne into it. “How kind of you to let me come.”

Brienne glanced over at Jaime, and he nodded once in affirmation. Catelyn took her by the arm to introduce her to the other gentlemen in the box. Renly seemed annoyingly eager to be introduced to Brienne, and Jaime almost forgot to listen intently to her “How do you do”s as he frowned in irritation at the youth. _I suppose I can’t blame him. She did polish up to be rather fascinating_ , Jaime congratulated himself as Catelyn finished introducing her. It seemed Jaime was done giving thanks to any of the gods for Brienne’s current success.

Jaime was at least aware enough that any eager young man, especially this untitled younger Baratheon upstart, would easily try to drag Brienne off topic, so he cleared his throat as he pulled out a chair for her. “Miss Tarth.”

She smiled softly at him, nodding her thanks. “Good afternoon, Professor Lannister.” _Perfect once again_ , Jaime nodded. He could feel his fingers curling around the caning of the wicker chair at the sound of her addressing him with perfect diction, and his hand tickled with that same memory of her breath against his palm. Whatever the result of today might be, there was no denying she had their family name down perfectly.

Ignoring convention, Renly dragged his own chair next to Brienne’s, and Jaime took a step back to hide his scowl at the younger man. “What a shame you missed the first race, Miss Tarth. It was rather thrilling, and I’m sure it almost made my brother crack a smile.”

Catelyn flashed a look towards Jaime before smoothly transitioning the conversation before he could interject. “Will it rain, do you think?”

Brienne’s eyes were mostly hidden from Jaime thanks to her elaborate hat, but he could see her straighten in her chair as she recognized her cue. “Rainstorms in Dorne are drizzly in the morn.” She said with a shy grin of triumph. Jaime bit his lip to keep from laughing in delight when she continued on confidently, “but in Harrenhall, Highgarden and Harclaw, hurricanes hardly ever happen.”

Renly laughed, and Brienne looked at him, startled. Jaime suddenly forgot his own inclination to laugh at Renly’s chuckling, and he resisted the urge to deck the man. He was rather miffed to see Lord Stannis with a similar look of disgust on his face and slowly unwound his arms, chastising himself into behaving properly before Catelyn could find a way to pour hot tea on his hand.

“Did I say something I ought not?” Brienne looked at Renly with wide eyes before flicking a glance over at Jaime. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Brienne was doing just _fine_ , and these blasted guests of Catelyn’s were, almost regrettably, exactly why Jaime had chosen the Joust as Brienne’s first test. The sour look on Lord Baratheon’s face was a battle Brienne needed to fight on her own, and not in direct earshot of the King and the representatives from the Seven Kingdoms.

“No, no, not at all. You’re absolutely smashing, Miss Tarth. No one ever speaks as eloquently at you at these damned things. That’s all.” Renly’s smile was unguarded and charming. Jaime begrudgingly allowed himself to like Renly for a moment for soothing Brienne’s fears, even if he didn’t like just how closely the pair of them were sitting to one another.

“My brother Stannis much prefers to wax philosophical on the wretched living conditions in Flea Bottom,” Lord Baratheon glared at his brother, “and I often feel as if I would rather be chopped up and served in a bowl o’ brown than listen to another discourse on the ‘misfortunate souls of the city’.” Renly shot a look right back at his brother.

Catelyn was busy pouring tea, and Jaime had taken a fortifying gulp of his own cup when Brienne spoke up. “The living conditions in Flea Bottom are nothing to be sniggered at.” Jaime nearly broke a tooth on the porcelain cup as Brienne drew everyone’s focus with her firm words.

Well. At least he couldn’t fault her pronunciation or grammar.

Lord Baratheon turned a cold stare towards Brienne. “I’m sure a respectable lady like yourself has no inkling as to how wretched the lives are of those poor people.” Jaime could see Brienne bristling at Lord Baratheon’s condescending tone, and he caught his brother’s eye. Tyrion looked about ready to sink into the ground from humiliation, and Jaime felt a perverse need to see her dress down the sullen and gray Stannis Baratheon.

Brienne’s spine was as steel just like it had been when she had stormed his home. But where the Brienne that had marched into his library would have started screaming at Stannis immediately, this Brienne in her fine hat and pinstriped suit-dress seethed with a refined fury he’d seen more often in Ms. Tyrell than in his hardworking and passionate pupil.

“And what exactly are you doing to fix those wretched conditions? I know of a man who would gladly cook for the King himself if it meant he could listen to the words of a Maester to ensure working in the smoke and dung-filled air of Flea Bottom’s main market square doesn’t kill him before he be half your age, my Lord. Tell me, do you have more than words to help him?” Jaime’s eyes met Tyrion’s panicking ones. He shrugged, only noting a few moments where Brienne’s grammar was starting to slip.

Jaime, however, was saved from his brother’s pointed looks forcing him to interfere when Catelyn rested a gloved hand over Brienne’s, sending an icy stare towards Lord Baratheon. He grinned to himself. _She got that look from Ned._

Lord Baratheon looked as puffed up as his gaunt and wiry body allowed before huffing disdainfully and turning away from Brienne slightly in his chair. “Hasn’t it suddenly turned chilly? I do hope we won’t have any unreasonably cold spells.”

The tension in the box waned slightly, and Jaime’s nose wrinkled in disapproval as Renly leaned forward to conspiratorially mutter _something_ to Brienne that made the wench smile. Dammit, Baratheon was making her _laugh_ when mere moments ago, she had been ready to tear off his elder brother’s head. That simply wouldn’t do for Jaime, and he finished off his tea with a decidedly ungentlemanly clink as he returned the cup to its saucer. _Best to get her away from_ both _Baratheons, I think_.

“I don’t know whether or not there’s time before the next race to place a bet. Come along, Brienne. Do you fancy my chances?”

Brienne turned her grin to him, and it softened into the wry one she seemed happy to share with him. Smugness didn’t suit him, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny ounce of pride when Brienne relinquished her own tea cup to take Jaime’s outstretched arm. “I don’t suppose I do.”

Renly seemed determined to irritate Jaime further as he stood with an easy smile, seemingly intent on joining them. “Miss Tarth, I have a bet on number seven. I would be so happy if you would take it. Someone as kind as you must have the sort of luck he needs, and it will help you enjoy the race so much more.” He held out the betting ticket, and Brienne took it with that same damned shy grin she had shared earlier with Renly. _I don’t like that_. _Not one bit._

“Thank you, Mr. Baratheon. That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh, Renly, Miss Tarth. I insist you call me Renly. And the horse’s name is Hareth.” Jaime smiled sharply at Renly as he led Brienne to the fence near the track’s backstretch.

He grinned as she took in the smell of the grass and the dense earth freshly packed for the race. The crowd had filled in around them, and Jaime tried to hide his glee when Renly was pushed back two lengths of people in the push of the crowd. Jaime pulled Brienne’s arm closer to him, and he angled his head up to murmur in her ear.

“Do you see them lining up to run, Brienne? At the steward’s bell, they’ll all fly away through the gate, and you’ll feel the ground shaking under your feet for a few glorious seconds.” He smiled at her, ignoring the push of bodies around him and the dull roar of polite ‘excuse mes’ and ‘I beg your pardons’ as the rest of the Royal Enclosure pressed forward to view the two minute frenzy of the Joust.

Brienne’s face was flushed again, and she gripped the railing of the fence tightly with her free hand. She glanced down at Jaime, and he was struck at how her eyes gleamed with excitement. Her face was youthful, free of any stress lines or worry, and Jaime allowed himself for a moment to forget his distaste for the Joust, and the pomp, and the ignorant highborn Lords and Ladies. He let go of her arm, and took a slight step back so he could watch Brienne enjoy her very first horse race.

The bell struck, and soon the horses thundered their way down the first length of the track. Brienne seemed to be muttering encouragement under her breath to the horse Renly had bet on, and Jaime peered down the track to spot the number seven in silks on a horse boxed in between the two leaders.

As the stallions rounded the first corner, the first vibrations of the twenty horses galloping down the straight began to make the glassware on tables rattle. Jaime allowed himself to relish in the adrenaline, taking a deep breath in as the horses to barreling towards them drew his focus.

He was so caught up in the race, he _almost_ forgot he was there to help Brienne.

“C’MON, ‘AREFF! MOVE YER BLOOMIN’ ARSE!”

Jaime’s head shot up as Brienne shouted her raucous encouragement down the track as the horses rounded the third turn and hurtled past their position on the other side of the fence. The lady next to Jaime gasped and seemed ready to faint, and before Jaime’s brain had even begun to process Brienne’s profane shouting, Lady Catelyn and Tyrion were both swooping in to hustle her away. Tyrion hurried her towards the line of cabs and cars waiting to whisk the afternoon racegoers back to their homes, and Catelyn soothed the nearest ruffled feathers.

“I daresay, rather an exciting race, don’t you think, Lord Arryn?”

“One must always laugh at the youth and their excitement, I am sure you’ll agree, Lady Florent?

“I do hope you’ll be joining me for tea next month, do promise me you’ll drop in, Lord Seaworth. You know how much the children enjoy hearing your tales of your seafaring youth.”

Before Jaime had even made his way back to the Stark box, everyone seemed content to save their scorn once more for his tweed suit and not for Brienne’s outburst, thanks in no small part to Lady Stark. He sighed with relief as he retrieved his hat, and glanced over to see Catelyn’s condemning look.

“You _cannot_ be serious, Jaime. You mean to take her to the Unification Feast?” Jaime sighed, brushing his hat off before placing it jauntily on his head.

“I do. What, do you think she isn’t ready?” Catelyn glared at him. Her face was severe, and she almost looked disappointed in him.

“That poor girl is more ready for a canal barge than the wolves that will rip her to shreds in His Majesty’s Keep.”

Jaime shot a glare right back at Catelyn. “Her language might need a little refining, but-“

“Jaime!” Catelyn interrupted, her voice dropping to a hiss, “A little refining? She _shouted_ at the Joust. No, I advise you to give this whole venture up before you completely humiliate the poor girl further.”

Jaime shook his head. “Give it up? The _‘poor girl’_ is working at this from morning till night. It fills my whole day to teach Brienne, to talk to Brienne, to listen to Brienne, even to _dress_ Brienne so that-“

“You’re very much like Sansa when she was naught but a youngling, playing with your live doll.” Catelyn retorted scathingly. Jaime scoffed, and both of them seemed to soften ever so slightly. “If you insist on bringing her to the Feast after this dreadful experience, I do hope you’re ready to explain _why_ , Professor Lannister. She is _not_ a doll for you to play with, she is very much a human woman, and I will not assist you in making her feel inferior. We are all dependent on one another, every soul on this earth, and if you think I’m going to stand here and let you treat one of those souls as nothing more than a plaything, you have severely underestimated me.”

Jaime sighed wearily. “I promise you, I don’t see her as a doll. She is worth this effort, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn’s face softened almost imperceptibly. It was not quite a smile, but after their afternoon, Jaime was certain it was as close to a smile as he would get. She nodded slightly. “I hope you’re right, Jaime.”

_So do I_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the reference images I consulted to build Brienne's joust outfit, check out my tumblr post [HERE](https://unadulteratedkr.tumblr.com/post/625731695802564608/reference-images-for-chapter-9-of-my-fair-maiden)
> 
> I'm going to take a slight break (it'll probably be about a month, same as the break I made between this chapter and the last) to give everyone, including myself, a chance to experience the AMAZING breadth of fics from the exchange that drops in LESS THAN 7 HOURS. Can't wait to see what everyone else has written, and I'm super excited to see if anyone can guess which one mine is. :D 
> 
> Next Chapter: The Joust has lingering effects on 27 Casterly Street over the course of three months


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